


into the world, into you

by portraitofemmy, propinquitous



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical References to Beastiality, Courtship, Depression, Fairy Tale Elements, Fillorian Politics (are a joke), Happy Ending, Inspired by Ever After (1998), Intercrural Sex, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Marriage Contracts, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26510800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous
Summary: Fairy tales that begin with once upon a time, featuring brave kings and true love that overcomes all hardship; Quentin Coldwater had been raised to believe in such things. But the reality of living in a fairy tale land is much less magical than one might like to believe. For twenty years he's lived a life of hardship and toil, working under the heel of an oppressive family. When a chance encounter sends Quentin into the path of the new High King, he finds himself swept up in a lie which threatens them both as they desperately grab for their own happily ever after.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 59
Kudos: 158
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Against all odds, we have somehow completed this fic! Neither of us expected 2020 to shape out the way it did when we signed up for this challenge back in February, but we’re immensely proud of the fic we’ve created in the face of many real life challenges. A huge thank you to Hth for beta reading, and to [dreamsparkle](https://dreamsparkle.tumblr.com/) for the amazing art which definitely helped keep us motivated.

_Once upon a time, there lived a young boy who loved his father very much._

_His father was a kind man, full of fantastical ambitions that he shared with his son, dreams of a better life for all people, dreams of a fantastical future where neither birth nor station determined what one could make of themselves. The boy spent his early life lost in the books his father would bring home and read to him, fantastical tales where good always triumphed over evil. Though he was young, he adored the written word, and would spend hours sitting upon his father's knee, tracing along with the words of the books, slowly learning to unlock the secrets they held: secrets of life, death, love, justice and belonging._

_When the boy was still quite young, his father became very gravely ill, and the sickness overtook him quickly. The boy was at his side the day Theodore Coldwater drew a gasping breath, looking up at the tear-stained face of his young son. "I lo–" he gasped, reaching up with a weakened hand to touch the boy's anguished cheek. "I love you. I love you."_

_"Papa!" the boy wailed, as a last shuddering breath escaped his father's lungs. Hands gripped his shoulders, trying to coax him to let go of his father's sleeve. But the boy clung on, sobbing, "No! No! Leave me! Leave me!"_

_For you see, the boy's father died that day, and with him the most profound of loves. It would be twenty years before another man would enter his life; a man who was still a boy in many, many ways._

  


* * *

Quentin Coldwater had risen with the sun for as long as he could remember. 

Those solitary hours of early morning light were Quentin's favorite part of the day. He would wake with the first crow of the rooster, more often than not coming awake on the floor next to the hearth in the kitchen where he'd fallen asleep reading the night before. Neck stiff and mind far away, the hours between the breaking of dawn and the family's breakfast were the only hours of the day Quentin was truly free to keep his own council— he could allow his mind to wander as freely as he liked as he dressed in his coarse, rough-spun tunic and trousers and he made his way down to the barn.

The barn itself was an unremarkable thing– a simple four-wall structure which perhaps once had known paint or thatch, but that was long before Quentin found his way to this modest orchard. More than anything now, the barn housed the ladders for the harvest, and provided a place to stash hay, lest the neighbors lose their goats upon it again. 

Of course, a collection of hay and a roof were more than enough to appeal to the patrons of Humbledrum's tavern. More than once in the last few years, Quentin had made his way down to the barn early in the morning to find himself faced with a hungover and angry grizzly bear— an experience he was not eager to repeat. 

And so he was cautious as he approached the barn that morning. He had heard the festivities at the tavern the night before, had seen the lights and heard the music and the shouts of the revelers late into the night. Such a racket had proceeded more than one unwelcome altercation the following morning, and Quentin prepared himself for at a minimum, a still-drunk raccoon, reaching to pluck three overripe plums from the last row of trees.

Thus armed, he slowly opened the barn door. Inside was dark, the musty smell of old hay lingering in the air. He would need to check the loft later, he realized, to ensure that rot had not gotten to the straw. He sighed as he scanned the room. Once, he and Julia had played here, had climbed the ladders and hidden among the disused crates. They had been kings and queens and warriors and mages, all those once fantastical things that were, in fact, entirely real, here in this magical land where he had made a home, or as close to one as he could manage. Still. He was too old for such things now.

A pained moan startled him from his reminiscence. 

A shift of movement in the corner of Quentin's vision accompanied the sound, and he acted without thinking. Turning towards the source of the movement, he lobbed one of the overripe plums directly at the shifting figure. It sailed in a soft arc through the air and splattered, with wet thump, about two feet away from its target, sending a spray of cloyingly sweet fruit pulp across the shadowed intruder. Naturally. Not that Quentin harbored any illusions of being a master marksman, but surely he could hit a stationary figure in a _barn_. 

"Good lord!" came a startled cry, but Quentin was already in the process of loosing another plum. This time his aim was truer, smacking into the shifting figure with a wet thump.

"You shouldn't be here," he called out, reeling back and lobbing his final projectile. "This isn't an _inn_! Go back to wherever you came from before you lost your dignity at the bottom of Humbledrum’s carrot wine bottles."

"Sir, I beg you," the man said as the fruit sailed by his head and at last, he straightened. Quentin was only mildly terrified to realize how much height he had on him, but any fear of his size was dwarfed when he saw his face. Even in the shadows of the barn, with his royal brocade dirtied with hay and road dust, the High King of Fillory cut a striking figure. Recognizable, if by the cleft of his chin and his aquiline nose alone. 

"Your Highness," he gasped, falling to his knees. "Please, forgive me. I knew not who you were."

The High King laughed as he brushed pulp off of his lapel. "Or perhaps you wished to foment revolution with a passionate application of stone fruit."

"I beg your forgiveness, truly." Quentin felt bile rising in his throat, a strange sort of terror that did not seem entirely justified. High King Eliot was known as a kind ruler, with far fewer of his High Queen's sharp edges. 

"And what shall you do to earn it?" the king asked as he approached, his footsteps soft on the dew-drenched hay. "A week in the stocks? Should I see you tarred and feathered?" As he listed his imaginative punishments— _Drawn and quartered, even!_ —Quentin dared to sneak a glance through the curtain of his own hair. High King Eliot was known throughout the countryside as a handsome man, but the rumors did not do the justice of such close observation. Though crownless, he sported a mop of lovely dark curls that fell over his eyes rather romantically, casting softness to the sharp edges of his cheek and brow. Those honed planes framed wide, lively eyes, and a pink mouth that seemed capable of only a delicate moue or gleeful grin. He was also impossibly tall, though Quentin was not entirely sure if that might be due to his current position on the ground. All told, he carried himself with such a singularly imperial air that Quentin wondered how he could have possibly failed to recognize him.

"Whatever His Majesty wishes," Quentin said to the dirt floor. The king was silent for a moment longer, the only sounds the beat of his footsteps as he paced and Quentin's heavy breath from the effort of his assault.

"Perhaps I'll allow you this indiscretion, if you will do me a favor." There was a lilt to his tone, something joking, that gave Quentin pause, like perhaps he was in the middle of an elaborate prank— as if the list of offered punishments was— a _tease,_ almost. Truly unlike any royalty Quentin had heard of or known. Death by a thousand pokes featured prominently in the books he loved as a child. 

Still: better safe than sorry. "Anything, my lord."

"Keep this between us," the king said, a touch softer. "I can't have the people knowing their king falls asleep among livestock."

Quentin smiled to himself, almost pleased to have a small secret to keep. "Of course. You have my word."

"Well then, I'd say we're settled. Do give your mistress my regards. The hay was most comfortable." With that, the king strode out of the barn and into the orchard beyond. Quentin did not rise until the sound of his footsteps faded.

The barn seemed lighter once Quentin was on his feet, as if the sun had found a way to infiltrate the spaces between the boards with greater efficiency. He shook his head and smiled to himself. Fillory was ever full of surprises, and he was not sure he would ever get used to it, no matter the years that passed.

He returned to the house with a spring in his step, an almost inexplicable lightness to his mood. Had it been that long, he wondered, since he had spoken to someone outside of his household? Had so much time passed since someone had been even just the slightest bit kind? Surely the king's actions could not even be described as kind, and indeed should be more readily attributed to self-interest, but he could not help but feel a little pleased at their interaction.

"Someone's looking peachy," Julia said as he walked into the kitchen.

"It's a beautiful morning," Quentin said simply, "should I not enjoy the sunshine?"

"Not when you've got my sister to feed, I'd imagine." She smiled and passed him a cutting board on which sat a loaf of still-warm bread. "Speaking of which, get to slicing. I don't think I can stand another one of her fits." 

"Me neither, not after last time. D'you know I almost lost an ear from her last tantrum?" As he spoke, he cut through the bread with delighted determination, hopeful that Marina would notice the slices too thin for her liking.

"How could I possibly, when you've never stopped talking about it?"

Quentin shoved lightly at her shoulder. "Well, rest assured, I'm on it."

"You'll go down to the market later, won't you? We have more plums than we can keep up with, and the peaches will be in soon."

"Of course," he said. "I've been hoping to catch the bookseller lately. He keeps telling me he can get books from Earth, but I've yet to see him do it."

"What, our books aren't good enough for you?"

Quentin laughed. "They're wonderful. I would kill to read an author who is actually capable of imagining a world _besides_ Fillory, though."

"If you say so."

Julia kissed him on the cheek. "I'll see you upstairs. Be careful of your ears." She winked at him before she turned the corner and ascended the stairs.

The kitchen was over-warm, always was by this point in the morning, stifling from the combination of the direct sunlight beaming in over the top of the trees in the orchard and the oven from the bread. Feeling a prickle of sweat across his neck, Quentin made his way over to the window over the butcher's block. Jiggling the sticky latch automatically, he pushed the window open, feeling the cool breeze blow in across his face. Close to two decades since he stumbled up the road to the orchard, a lost little boy, and the smell of the breeze in the morning was still one of his favorite smells.

It beat the smell of the goats and the hay in the barn, at the very least. Unbidden, the thought flitted into his mind, _Does the king smell like our goats at this very moment?_ It was probably some kind of treason, to think such things, but— who was to know? Staring out over the orchard, Quentin recalled the way the straw had clung to the king's dark curls, twisted into the smooth tresses. 

"Quentin! Have you fallen asleep down there?" came a shrill call from upstairs, startling Quentin out of his reverie. 

He gave it several seconds before he responded. "Of course not," he called. "Be up shortly." With that, he gathered the earthenware plates and the jam and the mugs for tea, balancing them all precariously on a tray with only the slightest hint of magic to hold them steady.

He spared one last look around the kitchen, at its white stone and its raw wooden countertops, worn smooth with age and use. The bright light of the morning felt as good an omen as any, especially with the way it seemed to illuminate every surface. He took a deep breath, inhaling the scents of bread and the flowering trees outside and of the tea that soon would oversteep, then turned toward the stairs.

"Quentin, do hurry up!" Marina's voice echoed down the stairwell.

"I'm hurrying," he said, too quietly to be heard. It never did to indulge Marina's spoiled nature. He kept quiet as he ascended, focusing his energy on keeping the cups from spilling and the plates from sliding off his tray. When at last he entered the dining room, he was greeted with Julia's sympathetic, wry expression at the far end of the table, and managed a brief smile at her before her mother and sister erupted in demands.

"Someone's been sleeping by the fireplace again," trilled the lady of the house, catching Quentin by his chin to examine the smudge of dirt on his face. 

"Why don't you sleep with the pigs, cinder-soot, if you insist on _smelling_ like one," Marina trilled back, making her mother chuckle. 

"I'll bathe before I head into town," Quentin sighed, trying not to grumble over much as he set down the tray of food.

"See that you do. Rumor has it that the High King is riding out this way on a matter of ceremony, and we can't have _you_ looking like you fell out of a tree in front of His Majesty."

Quentin's heart skipped, then raced to catch up, and he fumbled the cup he'd been in the process of setting down on the table for Marina. Julia shot him a concerned look, and for once in his life Quentin was _glad_ for the presence of his adopted family, that they might keep her from probing further. He said, "Yes, stepmother," using the excuse of pouring tea to avoid Julia's searching gaze. 

In his distraction, however, he began pouring tea less into Marina's cup and more directly into her lap. At the last second, he managed a quick gesture, a tingle of magic through the tips of his fingers, and the water redirected itself back into the waiting cup, but it was too late— Julia had noticed his slip up, and her gaze became less probing and more accusatory.

"Careful there, boy," Marina sighed. "This dress was terribly expensive."

"You'd never know it by the look of it," Julia said.

Marina glared and accepted her cup from Quentin. "Just because _you_ don't know court fashion when you see it," she said.

Julia sneered and caught Quentin's eye in time to cross hers, sticking her tongue out just slightly in a mockery that Quentin knew was equally of Marina and of the court. Her expressions straightened as Marina turned toward her.

"Have you heard about this? The High King? Do you think he could be on his way to Ember's Shrine?"

Julia shrugged. "It's possible," she said around a mouthful of toast. Quentin could not help but smile; Julia had never adopted the noble affectations of her sister. "More likely on his way to a tavern or some stable-boy's cot for a tumble, if the rumors are to be believed. But, we've had a good year, magic's been steady, no war, no famine... Who the king tumbles with is none of my concern."

Dark brown curls, scattered with hay, _Ember's taint_ , Quentin needed to keep his wits. "Maybe he just wants plums," he mused instead. "We _are_ the best orchard in Fillory."

"Well in that case, you better make yourself presentable," the lady sniffed, giving Quentin a once over. "Yes, I think you should go get cleaned up now."

"But I—" Quentin starts, gesturing towards the bread and eggs, still hot, and the heaping platter of fruit and cheese. 

"There'll be food when you get back from the market," Marina smirked, and Quentin— he tried not to hate Marina and her mother, sincerely, he did. They took him in when he was small, gave him a home and clothes and something resembling a life but— in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to direct the hot water back out of Marina's cup and right into her lap.

"Yes, stepmother," he said instead. Trusting that Julia would take pity on him and pinch him some left over eggs and bread, Quentin turned and headed back down towards the kitchen to bathe and dress for town. 


	2. Chapter 2

"I saw the prettiest little farm boy this morning," Eliot announced to Margo's reflection as he strode into her chambers. When she did not turn to face him, he sat down at the foot of her bed, observing her while he waited for her response. She sat at a vanity, an array of cosmetics and oils and creams scattered before her. Eliot always loved watching Margo— the expertness of her application, how she always knew where to place a pin. Though he himself was not unfamiliar with such things, he had never stopped being impressed by the ease with which she accomplished things that had taken him years to learn.

"Oh?" Margo said with a smirk. "That sounds like a typical day for you." 

"Does it?" Eliot said, examining his nails in as disaffected manner as he could manage.

Without stopping the swift application of her eyeliner, she said, "Don't tell me, the gorgeous innkeep?" 

"The _bear?_ "

"You've had stranger," she said with a loose shrug. "But I suppose he wouldn't count as a farm boy."

"No," Eliot agreed, smiling. "He wouldn't."

Lost in the recollection of the boy's face, Eliot did not offer further details as Margo finished her routine, as she allowed— Margaret? Fae? Eliot could not remember the maid's name— to lace up the back of her dress and check her braids a final time. Instead he thought fondly of how the sureness in the boy's voice had given way to groveling, how soft his hair looked as it had fallen across his face, and how, through it all, he had never lost the slight tilt to his mouth, as though he and Eliot were in on some joke together and perhaps had been so for years.

"So what did Dint have to say?" Margo said as she turned to face him. Eliot shook his head.

"Exactly what I'd expected, unfortunately."

Margo stood, frowning sympathetically, and stepped forward to smooth his hair with familiar fondness. From anyone else, the gesture might have been condescending, but from Margo it was only comfort.

"So it's time, then," she said, and sat down beside him.

"It's time," Eliot agreed, his head lolling onto her shoulder. "Time to screw my courage to the sticking place, or however one marries a woman." He breathed in the scent of her perfume and kissed her neck until she squirmed, ticklish under his stubble.

"Or," she said, wrinkling her nose. "You could pull yourself together and get ready to petition Ember. You know he doesn't like sloppy supplicants." 

"Do you really think he'll listen?" he wondered aloud. Even as he tried to hide it, he knew that Margo could hear the undercurrent of fear to his voice. When they had first arrived in Fillory, it had been a lark, an escape from the incessant disaster of Eliot's life. The realities of being royalty, and the dangers therein, had robbed it of its shine since then. They'd quelled rebellions and talked their way around border skirmishes purely on luck and charisma; felt their way around for good advisors (inexplicably, the sloth proved herself earliest) and bad ones (every Pickwick in the goddamn kingdom). Somehow they'd managed not to lose their heads in the process, literally or figuratively. 

It didn't change the fact that they were still newcomers to the land, on their thrones hardly a year and still learning the ways of the people of Fillory as well as its gods. Even Margo's cleverness was bound to be blunted by such circumstances, as much as Eliot's patience was shortened by them. 

Of course, Margo was still the shining light in Eliot's life, there to break him out of his melancholy with her balanced practicality, as he aimed to temper her hot-headed impulsiveness. Now, she leveled him with a serious expression that was nevertheless gentle, her eyes wide and her mouth firm. "Well it can't hurt to try," she said. "It's that or resign yourself to an eternity of sexual frustration." 

"I suppose," Eliot sighed, drawing his fingertips dully up and down her arm, watching the gooseflesh rise in response to the gentle touch. No, Eliot had the only female life-partner he needed already, thank you very much, your hairy, big-horned honor. "Do you think it would help to bring him a gift?"

"I mean, it always helps when people petition us, doesn't it?"

"Please, don't compare us to Ember. I smell enough like livestock as it is."

Margo pushed him away, urging him to his feet. "Well then you'd better get cleaned up. We can't have the whole realm knowing the High King sleeps in barns."

Eliot cast his mind back to the image of the boy, his cheeks red in exertion and later, embarrassment. He said, "No, we certainly can't," and kissed her forehead one last time before he went to wash away the remnants of the previous night.

-

The town of Springreach near the Southern Orchard had always been fairly unremarkable, as far as Eliot was concerned. Next to the grandeur of Whitespire, it was almost quaint, but in a way that always seemed more dull than idyllic. Rarely was he moved to wander far from the King's road. Now, twice in two days, Eliot found himself passing through the little town. Yesterday it had merely been a stop on the road where he'd be able to find a tavern, overcome with a need to wipe the conversation with Dint from his memory. Today, well.

Today, it was with the desperate hope that _someone_ could help him appease the notoriously mercurial gods of Fillory, his last hope before the chains of a bargain made in haste tightened around him forever.

By the light of day, the town was much more lively than it had been the previous night, when the only light had come from the windows of Humbledrum's tavern. Now a market bustled in the town square, stalls upon stalls laden with all the little town had to offer. It seemed as good a place to find a gift as any other, and Eliot aimed himself that way, the dull treading of his guards in tow. What they offered that protection charms and some battle magic stolen from the library at Brakebills didn't, Eliot would never know, but after almost a full year in Fillory he was accustomed to their presence. 

The market was, overwhelmingly, full of items that would be useful for the average townsfolk. Eliot browsed his way through a stall of simple fabric, nowhere near as delicate or rich as the brocades and velvets he enjoyed at Whitespire. Yet the sturdy, supple material called to him, a challenge to create, to transform. How long had it been since Eliot had had a hand in his own sewing? Could it really have been before Michael, before even Brakebills? 

An odd sense of melancholy falling over him, he moved along to the next stall. He saw baskets overflowing with stone fruit, breathing in the smell that he'd rode back to the castle with clinging to his clothes that morning, before he saw— _ah_ , _yes_. His lovely farm boy from that morning, turned away to talk to a white-haired woman over a handful of peaches. He looked cleaned up, more put together than he had been when he'd be pelting Eliot with plums, his brown hair just long enough to be tied in a knot at the back of his head. Loose strands framed his face, and Eliot's fingers itched, suddenly, to catch one of those strands and tuck it behind his ear, see if that might draw out his conspiratorial smile—

The woman seemed at last to notice Eliot, or at least his entourage, and raised her eyebrows in warning to the boy. Eliot waited with a preemptively satisfied grin, sure that the boy's cheeks would turn even redder than they had that morning upon realizing who his next customer would be.

Instead, the boy gave him a quick glance, smiled, and held up a single finger, clearly instructing Eliot to wait. Eliot squinted. Surely the boy had seen him, and surely he could not have missed the two guards in their absurd felted hats and habelards. 

But then the boy's shoulders went stiff, his once animated movements grinding to a halt. Slowly, he turned, and Eliot resumed his self-satisfied posture, one hand on his hip and a wry smile on his lips.

"Hello," he said cordially. "Got any plums for sale?"

"Ah, yes. I— we do! Of course, that is to say, um," the boy stuttered adorably, hands fluttering like butterflies over the baskets of fruit in front of him. "We have a whole variety of seasonal fruits and— well, it's mostly peaches and plums and cherries, right now, actually. It's stone fruit season. We'll have apples in the fall? And the pears, too! Pears come in the fall. A little before the apples, actually."

Only the slowly dawning look of horror on the boy's face, that of one who recognizes his mouth is moving without consultation or connection with his brain, moves Eliot to cut off the train of frankly adorable babble. "Which do you prefer? Of the stone fruits on offer?"

"Oh, um," the boy cut off, a light dusting of pink across his cheek as he looked down at the fruit in front of him. It wasn't bashful, not quite, and Eliot found himself intrigued, regarding the boy with increasing curiosity. "The cherries are my favorite, actually. They're especially sweet right now, you could eat dozens without noticing. But the plums are good too, if Your Majesty would like some of those?"

Eliot chewed his lip thoughtfully. He didn't know if Ember had any preference, for fruits or otherwise, and a slow churning fear began in his belly. If he brought the wrong gift, he risked not only angering a god, but also destroying his future, any hope he had for a happy life. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and touched the smooth flesh of the plums. This was too much to decide on his own; he should've asked Margo to come with him.

"Your Highness?" the boy said, with only a hint of caution.

"What do you think— what's your name?"

He blushed, those watercolor splotches across his cheeks that Eliot couldn't help but adore. "Quentin, sire."

"What do you think, Quentin? What fruit befits a god?"

"Oh, um," Quentin, paused, visibly stalling while he sorted his thoughts. "Can I be honest?" —and at the last second, "Sire."

"Please do. My fate hangs in the balance," Eliot said with a wink. 

"Well," he began, and stopped again. Eliot could practically see the gears in his head turning, in the crease of his brow and the dimples of his concentrated frown. "I don't think he'll like any fruit. Much as I hate to admit it and lose the sale, what Ember prefers is cakes."

Eliot made a mental note to ask why none of the many dowdy scholars he supposedly employed had possessed such a ready answer. "Cakes?"

"Yes, sir. Little cakes."

"Like— _petits fours?_ " 

"I— I don't know, sire," Quentin replied, hesitant. "Is that a specific kind of cake?"

"It's French," Eliot said absently, glancing up just in time to watch a curious series of expressions flit across Quentin's face before his features settled into the polite confusion that usually greeted any mention of Earth. "Little cakes, you say. Is there somewhere here I could purchase some of those?"

"I'm sure Almie— that's our baker— would stop production in his entire shop to make some for you, sire," Quentin says, a little twist to the corner of his mouth. "Just tell him I sent you to him, and maybe he'll stop stiffing the orchard on our flour delivery."

"I'll do you one better," Eliot offered, heart racing up in a way it hadn't, God, since last he was able to sit and offer a man a drink. "Take me to him, and I'll make sure you leave with something too."

"I— I can't leave the stand," Quentin stuttered, eyes going wide. "I've got to sell all of this before nightfall." 

"That's not a problem, I can buy it all, have it sent back to the castle—"

"No!" Quentin cut in, and then flushed, horrified, glancing off towards Eliot's guards like he expected to be killed on the spot. "It's just— Your Majesty, people in this town rely on crops from the orchard to feed their families. I'm happy to sell you a portion, but I could never leave the village starving for a week."

Eliot nodded seriously, his exaggerated expression concealing the shock he felt. If his people were truly so reliant on a single orchard, then certainly he could make things easier for at least a time, at least until he was able to sit down with Margo and revisit their agricultural plans.

"How about I pay for them anyway, and you give them to whoever needs them?"

Quentin opened his mouth as if to protest before the woman he had been speaking to earlier popped up behind his shoulder.

"Your Majesty is _most_ kind," she said while squeezing Quentin's shoulders with obvious force. "While our Quentin here is obliged to argue with you out of politeness, we'll spare you any more wasted time and accept."

Eliot watched Quentin's expression for something like shame, or else frustration, but saw only his soft brown eyes go from wide in shock to squinting in a smile.

"Thank you," Quentin said, and of all things, then, he extended his hand. Eliot could not remember the last time he had been offered a handshake as an equal; when someone had met his gaze with confidence instead of groveling or worse. His stomach fluttered as he accepted, at the warmth of his grasp and the rough calluses that covered the ridge of Quentin's palm.

"Now, about those little cakes."

-

Guards left to stand watch in the forest below, Eliot made his way up the hill atop which rested Ember's Shrine. As he ascended, the smells of the forest grew fetid, the smell of damp giving way to the scent of rotting leaves; the smells of mold and mushrooms where evening dew should be. A strong scent of animal musk descended upon him, and he knew that he was close.

It made Eliot long for the air of Quentin's barn, for though it had been quite damp and the smell of goats had followed him home, it had been nothing so foul as this.

At last he reached the top, his hands nicked and dirty from the steep climb. Moss and half-dead greenery covered the tall stones that marked the entrance to the shrine; Ember wasn't known for his sense of order or cleanliness— indeed, if anything was known for precisely the opposite, but it still caught Eliot off guard to see the filth for himself.

All in all, he was not thrilled to cut open his hand and place the wound to grimy stone.

"Your Eminence," Eliot called out as magic surged from his hand into the stone. It drained him at the same time it lit him up, reminding him of the power that coursed beneath his skin and the duty that ran beside it. "I've come to beseech you." 

A moment's silence passed as Eliot's magic flowed from the stone into the ground, and then back up, lighting the runes of the shrine. A breeze kicked up around him, the dead leaves lifting from the damp dirt to swirl around his feet, the smell of rot and musk and then something else, something inhuman, like the crackle of lightning or perhaps the scent of an asteroid bursting through the atmosphere.

Then, silence. A chill passed over Eliot's neck.

At last came a high voice from behind the ivy. "You may approach."

Eliot trod gently toward the entrance to the shrine, wiping his hand on a handkerchief. "What have you brought, Child of Earth?"

"Little cakes," Eliot said cheerily, and placed the confections on one of the many disused tables that lined the room. It was not hard to imagine the feasts that had once been held here, the long lines of meat and bread and wine that might have flowed in rivers, if Fillorians had ever learned to make it properly.

He watched as Ember inspected the cakes, his gaze drifting slowly between the green ones shaped like stars and the round blue ones before they landed at last on the small pink heart-shaped cakes with delicate dots of white icing. Absurdly he recalled how Quentin had smiled when Eliot had picked them, the gentle curve of his lips when he'd said, _Those are my favorite._

The lilting rumble of Ember's voice broke his reverie. "You struck a bargain, child. A bargain that made you High King."

"I did," Eliot agreed, swallowing hard. Though he had met Ember once before and found him slightly more absurd than he'd anticipated— those _horns_ , honestly— he was nevertheless intimidating. There was no denying the capricious power that seemed to fill the room, thick and viscous as honey.

Ember hummed, smiling with apparent delight around the cake. "And now you seek to break that pact."

"I do," Eliot confirmed, as there hardly seemed to be any point in arguing the reason for his visit, even if it did not paint him in the most flattering light.

"Interesting," Ember hummed, picking delicately at one of the frosted cakes on the dias in front of him. "Perhaps the most interesting thing you've done, in your short tenure here as ruler of these great lands. You and your Queen have proven _effective_ rulers, or so my brother says, but you don't offer much in the way of _unexpected actions_."

"I— apologize for being boring?" Eliot offered, feeling a dawning sense of horror. _He_ , who had modeled his life on Dionysus, too boring for the Fillorian gods. Truly his royal duties had left him far too little time for debauchery.

"Oh, you've been keeping my brother appeased, that's in your best interests as well. But I'm inclined to allow you the chance to run with this little whim of yours, if only to see what chaos comes of it." Ember straightened up, and oh— Eliot was very much not used to having to _look up_ at anyone. It was disconcerting and he felt vertigo creep up his back before it settled into his limbs. He shook out his hands as Ember inhaled the obvious breath of pronouncement. "Eliot Waugh," he boomed, "High King of Fillory, it is the will of Ember that you marry a Fillorian citizen before the spring equinox in two weeks' time. However, on the decree of Ember, you have until then to find a natural born Fillorian _of your own choosing_ , or marry the daughter of Dint."

Eliot sighed, holding back the urge to laugh. "Great, I can do that—"

" _If_ you fail, and refuse to marry the knifemaker's daughter, you will be banished from Fillory, forever." 

Eliot straightened. "Understood," he said with a jerk of his chin. He ignored the churning his gut and the faraway sounds of alarm bells in his ears. "Are there any other conditions to this bargain?"

Ember licked icing from his fingers and smiled. "Not at this time."


	3. Chapter 3

"Come on, you!" Quentin cried after the goat. He really did need to repair the pen, or add another rung, anything to keep these awful animals better contained. At present, a kid barely into adolescence raced down the garden path, toward the orchard, where it would undoubtedly pick off the sweetest, lowest hanging fruit or worse, wreak havoc on the newly planted saplings.

"Again?" Julia sighed as she caught up with him. "When are you going to _do_ something about that fence?"

"When your sister stops demanding that I meet every one of her whims and your mother realizes that I am but one person with only so many hours in the day."

"Fair enough," Julia said, and whatever came next Quentin didn't hear, as he was off down the path, still calling after the damned goat. He was too tired for this, too tired for every aspect of the orchard and the animals and of Julia and her family, whether it was from sheer frustration or the fact that he had, admittedly, been slow to find sleep all week long, kept up as he was by thoughts of _the High King_ — who had, for whatever reason, wanted to know his name.

Julia was at least kind enough to keep him company, while he slogged through the mud and goat shit to return the kid back to the rest of the herd. She didn't seem overly concerned with her own tasks for the day, whatever they may be, and for one Quentin found himself becoming irritated with her presence. Julia was the best, the only really, but certainly the best friend he'd ever had— and yet, there were times when he could not escape that fact that he was, technically, her servant.

"Your head's more in the clouds than usual," Julia called out to him, as she perched up delicately on the edge of a hay bail, her feet swinging against the straw. "Still thinking about your royal encounter?"

"Actually, I was thinking how much I hate goats," Quentin grumbled. Julia just pursed her lips into a smile in response, and Quentin sighed. "Perhaps. I was not expecting him to be... you know what they say about the High King?"

"Mercurial, hedonistic, flighty?"

"He didn't seem that way at all. Well," Quentin cut himself off, looking away from Julia so she wouldn't see him blush. "Perhaps a bit hedonistic. But he was very kind! He bought me a fruit pie."

"Because fruit is so hard for you to come by?"

"Like I'm allowed to _eat_ any of this?" Quentin snapped at her, gesturing up towards the orchard. She frowned, and Quentin sighed, stopping to lean his elbow against the broken edge of the paddock. "It's not like it matters, Julia. I will never see him again." Seeing his chance, he lunged at the kid, grabbing its back ankles and dragging it back to the herd. He resisted the urge to kick a fence post, choosing instead to turn to Julia and give his best smile— which, in that moment, could hardly be called a grin.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that."

"Jules, under what circumstances in this world or any other would I _ever_ have reason to see the king again?"

"Well," Julia said lightly, trailing one finger along the fence. "Perhaps you'll find out soon. Because I believe that's the royal carriage headed this way."

"What?" 

Julia raised her eyebrows toward the gate. Quentin followed her gaze and saw that, sure enough, a black and gold carriage, helmed by two white horses so free of dirt and dust that they were unmistakable as anything but _royal_ , even in the absence of insignia or the bright plumes that adorned their unbesmirched pates.

"You have to hide me."

"Why in Umber's name would I do that?"

"He can't see me like this."

"What do you care?"

"Please, Jules. Just. Cover for me, all right?"

"Fine," she said, and made for the front gate. Quentin sprinted toward the house, keeping low beneath the hedge as he ran for the kitchen door. Once inside, he ran light-footed upstairs to the windows that overlooked the courtyard.

Quentin watched as two footmen approached the front door, one reaching for the heavy knocker. He ignored Marina's shouts for him, praying that she would not waste too much time looking for him. Blessedly she appeared shortly and then, upon the footmen's apparent pronouncement, High King Eliot appeared from the lacquered carriage, High Queen Margo following shortly after to accept his proffered hand.

Desperate to hear their conversation, Quentin risked opening the window. He winced as it creaked but neither Their Majesties nor Marina appeared to notice, their conversation flowing uninterrupted.

" —so you see, it's of the utmost concern to the Crown that all of our citizens have reliable access to food," Eliot was saying, in a far more diplomatic tone than Quentin's heard from him in even their briefest encounters. "As one of the agricultural leaders in the region, we were hoping you would be willing to help us gain a better picture of the situation."

The queen didn't speak, but even from this distance, Quentin could see her sizing up the lady of the house, and Marina by her side. Quentin's stepmother spoke in a low, acquiescent murmur: "But of course, we're so honored that you'd think of us."

"I've good reason to," Eliot said cheerfully. "I've made something of an acquaintance with one of your farm boys. Quentin, I believe?"

Quentin felt suddenly hot under the collar, but Eliot seemed unaware of the implication, or unbothered by it. There was an odd strangled sound, like someone halfway through a giggle had their foot trodden upon, and then Marina spoke up. "He's most uncouth, Your Majesty. Nearly a half-wit."

"Oh, you think so? I found him to be quite well-spoken," Eliot replied, something shifted in his tone, but Quentin couldn't make it out.

"We'll make sure he doesn't bother you again," the lady cut in, and Quentin's stomach dropped. He needed to get out of here, lest they call him down to humiliate him further. He would surely face the consequences later, but Ember take consequences. Suddenly Eliot's good opinion of him mattered more than anything his stepmother might do to him. "Speaking of which, where is the boy? Surely your majesties must be in want of refreshment."

At that Quentin raced toward the door. He was safer waiting out this visit down by the river, he reasoned. Where no one could call for him and he ran no risk of Eliot— the _High King_ he reminded himself— seeing him in such a state. Or worse, seeing the way his so-called family treated him.

The path to the river was a familiar one. Since he was a child he had followed it down to the water, the rocky banks with their weeds and their frogs a refuge to him from Marina's demands and the cruel voice of his stepmother. Where he could sit with a book for hours and no one would ever come looking for him. Toeing off his shoes and stripping his outer shirt, Quentin stashed them behind a tree and took a running leap into the water. The resultant splash was incredibly satisfying, spattering water up onto the bank. He could already feel it loosening the grim in his hair and on his skin and he helped it along with some minimal scrubbing until he could feel reasonably confident that he neither looked nor smelled like he was recently knee-deep in a goat pen. 

For a long while he sat on the bank, allowing the suns and air to dry him as he watched the leaves drift along the shimmering surface of the water. He dug his toes into the damp dirt, felt the pebbles and roots between his toes. He had always loved the feeling of it. This earth beneath his feet that was not so unlike the Earth on which he had been born and yet, with all the magic flowing through its veins, felt entirely different against Quentin's skin.

Above him birds called and the suns shone with all the novelty of their dual light, those bright things which despite all the years that Quentin had been on this planet had never grown dull with familiarity. Eventually he laid back, to feel the rays across his face and his arms and the tops of his feet. To listen to the sounds of Fillory all around him. So absorbed was he in his comfort that he did not hear the sounds of footsteps breaking twigs and tumbling among the rocks, nor the tinkling sounds of a woman's laughter and beneath it the gentle tenor of a man's.

In his half-dreaming state it was only when he heard the man call, _Margo!_ that he realized who approached. Belatedly he gathered his shoes and scrambled to hide in the dense undergrowth at one side of the bank, watching with drowsy curiosity as the High King and Queen jumped headlong into the water.

Quentin could not help but marvel at their comfort with one another. Alone in the river without guards or audience their eyes seemed to shine with unknown brightness, their naked limbs dazzling in the sunlight as their underclothes, soaked to nigh transparency, stuck to their skin and revealed all the hidden curves of their bodies to which no farm boy should be privy.

As they shoved each other under the water— the queen shoving Eliot's shoulders beneath the surface to climb on them only to be toppled over; Eliot kicking away with such vigor so as to create a great hurricane over them both— Quentin felt his muscles, wound tight in hiding, relax.

It was as if he saw them for who they truly were: not rulers, not magicians, simply people. People who clearly loved each other, by Quentin's estimation, all the evidence of their affection offered in their curved smiles, the ease with which they lie floating side by side, staring heavenward. Though he could not quite make out their words, he could readily imagine them. All the love that might pass between them.

When the queen froze a small path through the water, Eliot quickly followed it with a stream of ice that seemed to melt it as quickly as it had solidified. Enthralled, Quentin watched as they played cantrips over the water, small things to make sparks and snow in miniature storms and blizzards. He felt all at once as though he were allowed access to something which no one else had ever seen. And he could not help the way his heart raced at the thought, at the wanting of something more.

Quentin's fingertips itched with the feeling of magic tingling against his skin. He had never seen anything like these spells before— what little magic he had been able to teach himself had come from passersby in the marketplace, scrolls he paid for out of the very little money he was granted by his family. The allure of someone who might _teach him_ , rather than simply stumbling around in the dark, far overpowered sense or safety. 

The little water control spell that he had used to redirect Marina's spilled tea not but four days ago came to Quentin's mind easily as he slowly slid out from his hiding place. In only damp breeches and shirtsleeves, he crouched on the bank. Then he reached out with the second sense that was his magic, fingers moving in a little circle until he could summon up a stream of water and direct it to the center of the High King's back.

From his perch on the bank, Quentin had a clear view of his confused face as he spun around to look behind him, and then at the High Queen. Quentin flicked another little jet of water at Eliot, which this time splattered him in the side of the head, and then rapidly another in the center of his chest. He didn't mean to laugh, but the way Eliot flailed under the onslaught of water was too funny to witness without some mirth, leaving Quentin giggling to himself when the High King eventually lost his balance, tipping backwards into the lake. It was probably the helpless laughter that gave him away, as a water-logged Eliot broke the surface, finally catching sight of him.

The look of blooming delight across Eliot's face was not something Quentin would likely forget any time soon. 

"You're a magician?" the High King called out, slogging through the water towards Quentin, a tone of unabashed awe in his voice that made Quentin's stomach swoop. Naturally, the excitement bubbling under Quentin's skin was due to the sharing of magic, and had nothing to do at all with the way the High King's gauzy white shirt had gone near-transparent from the water, leaving little to be imagined about the dark hair of his chest or the length of his torso. 

Quentin swallowed against a sudden dryness in his mouth. "Not much of one," he protested weakly, hugging his knees to his chest. "Magic is the very fabric on which Fillory exists, but it's rare for Fillorians to be able to control it. I haven't had much access to a teacher."

"How singular," the High Queen said in a tone Quentin could not begin to parse. It sounded as though she was aiming to tease, but he could not tell if the jab was directed at her companion or himself. "You must be the loyal subject with the insights into the culinary habits of our beloved gods."

Of all the things Eliot could have mentioned about Quentin to his queen, that was probably the better one. _'This idiot farm boy brained me with a plum and yelled at me about being a wastrel'_ would probably not have done much to ingratiate him with Fillory's High Queen, who was known neither for her restraint nor her even temper. It was difficult, suddenly, to reconcile that image with the one he'd just observed; a girl his own age, playing in the water with someone she loved. Eliot too had been nothing but a contradiction to his rumored self, kind and thoughtful and empathetic. They'd come to the orchard to talk about food and famine, on a simple comment from Quentin. Despite the idle gossip of a nosey populace, they were _good_ leaders. 

But they were people, too.

"I'm Quentin," he offered, feeling slightly less shy than he had a moment ago. "Quentin Coldwater. Those spells were amazing."

Eliot flapped his hand dismissively. "Oh, those? Those were nothing. Come on, we'll teach you."

And so they did. The suns stretched high in the sky as the day grew long, and still the High King and Queen stayed by the riverbank, teaching Quentin spells. Magic came to them with an ease Quentin envied, through twists of Eliot's long graceful fingers and snaps of power through Margo's capable hands. They taught Quentin to freeze the water first, a spell Margo called _'cryomancy 101_ ', and then Eliot taught him to conjure a cloud of lighting and thunder into the palm of his hand. In return, he showed them the simple spells he'd picked up over the last couple years, the control water and a small mending spell he often used on broken crockery or other household items to stave off the wrath of the lady of the house. Rarely had Quentin felt so immediately at ease with anyone. It was incredibly easy to forget that this young man and woman, friendly and teasing and generous as they were, carried the burden of a kingdom. Without his crown, Eliot's dark curls tumbled in ringlets around his face, soft and inviting. Quentin longed to touch them, a deep sharp desire like an ache of surprising force. 

By the time the suns began to dip low in the sky, Quentin's fingers ached from casting, and his entire face hurt from smiling. Only Umber knew how long it'd been since Quentin smiled this much, so freely. His entire being felt light, even as the High King and Queen began to compose themselves for the journey back to Whitespire. Quentin would be able to walk to the orchard before nightfall easily enough, but they were still a good couple hours' carriage ride away from the castle. Luckily carriages on the King's Road came frequently and moved quickly, or else they'd be stuck sleeping in Quentin's barn again. Eliot laughed out loud when Quentin voiced this thought, and it warmed him down to his belly as he bid them farewell, turning to begin his trek back up to the manor house. 

"Quentin!"

Turning, Quentin looked back towards the High King, standing once more regal and proud and unattainable. "Yes, sire?"

"I'm headed out to the royal annex at The Castle That Isn't Theretomorrow. Do you know it?"

"I've heard of it," Quentin replied, smiling just a little as he spoke. "I've never seen it for obvious reasons."

Eliot grinned, seemingly delighted with Quentin's cheek. "Would you care to join me?"

Quentin's heart leapt in his throat. It was a dangerous proposition, slipping away from his family when they were already likely to be angry with him for disappearing today. And yet, looking into the High King's hopeful face, Quentin did not think at all of how much more dangerous it would be to disobey a command from his sovereign. No, all he could think is that a day of Eliot's company might be the best thing Quentin had ever been offered in his entire life. 

"I would like that very much, sire."

"Excellent!" Eliot's smile was a wide, contagious thing, and Quentin could not help but return it in full. "Look for my carriage an hour or so after sunrise."

" _You're_ getting up at sunrise?" the High Queen asked, a deeply skeptical note to her voice. Eliot seemed unbothered, however, paying her no mind as he stared up that path towards Quentin.

"I'll be there," Quentin promised, ducking his head in a little bow. 

And he would, he vowed to himself the whole walk back towards his stepmother's house. He would be there, no matter what it might cost him later.


	4. Chapter 4

Eliot closed his eyes against morning light that grew steadily brighter as the carriage made its way over the rocky path. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm his nerves. Yet he could not still the fluttering feeling in his stomach, so anxious he was to reach the orchard and retrieve Quentin, who with his eager magic and open eyes had produced in Eliot a hope at last for his future. How could he possibly be calm when at the end of this road a boy waited for him who might yet save him from the worst of fates?

As promised, he arrived sometime after sunrise. Eliot was surprised to find Quentin waiting at the gate rather than on the steps of the house, and said so as Quentin settled in the seat across from him. He was dressed more finely than Eliot had ever seen him, indeed more finely than a farm boy had any right to be dressed, in a storm-blue tunic detailed with gray and light gray trousers, brown riding boots worn with wear. He looked slightly out of place in them, as though he'd raided the closet of a distant cousin, but Eliot appreciated the effort nonetheless, warm at the thought of Quentin aiming to look as though he belonged at Eliot's side. 

"Well," Quentin said, smiling slightly as he looked down to smooth his fine trousers. "I thought I might save you from the fawning of my step-sisters and mother."

Eliot grinned. "How gallant of you," he said. It was all he could do not to reach across the carriage and draw him in for a kiss then and there, what with the way his eyes glinted with mischief and his face dimpled sweetly. Quentin made for a mess of beautiful contradiction.

"That's me," Quentin said. "Quentin the Gallant. Saving damsels left and right from the clutches of Uthwaine the Hungry."

" _Uthwaine?_ "

Quentin held a hand to his heart and gasped in a way that Eliot instantly perceived as mocking. The fondness he felt only grew in that moment, as Quentin with impish glee reached forward to take his hands. "Oh, sire," he said, halfway between laughing and serious, "you have so much to learn of this land. Certainly a king cannot rule over a land without knowing the stories of its people?"

"Please, today, call me Eliot." Without thinking Eliot stroked a thumb over Quentin's knuckles. "It sounds like you have much to teach me."

"Perhaps," Quentin said with a tilt of his head. Eliot did not miss the way Quentin squeezed his hand before settling back into his seat. "Where shall I begin, Eliot?" 

The morning's journey passed quickly under the spell of Quentin's words. Later, Eliot would not be able to recall everything of which Quentin had spoken, but he would remember the excitement in his voice, the almost frantic gestures of his hands. He would remember the way that the late morning light had set Quentin's brown eyes golden and the way he had seemed to laugh with his whole body at whatever lazy joke Eliot made.

They reached The Castle That Isn't There without much fanfare. There was, of course, not much to see, besides the two guards standing at what one must presume to be the door, though in reality they seemed to just be standing at attention in the middle of the field. 

"Do you think they ever accidentally miss the door," Eliot asked under his breath as he turned towards the carriage steps to help Quentin out. "And find themselves walking straight into solid stone, instead?"

"I imagine it's happened before," Quentin tipped his head in agreement, a conspiratorial twitch to the corner of his mouth. "Seems like the manner of thing I would do."

"Oh, you're accident prone? Best hold on then, lest I lose you before we manage to make our way inside." And with that, marveling slightly at his own suavity, Eliot tucked Quentin's hand into the crook of his elbow.

"Of course, sire." Quentin's voice was laced with humor, and when Eliot looked over at him, there was a happy flush pinking his cheeks.

"Eliot," Eliot reminded him, watching Quentin duck behind the swing of his hair, like that might hide his pleased embarrassment. 

"Eliot."

He did manage to avoid losing Quentin for the twenty feet or so it took to approach the guards from the carriage. They snapped to attention at the approach of the High King, a sort of automated reflex that still set Eliot on edge even after a year. One of them turned immediately and began groping for the door handle, missing it on the first try. Eliot caught Quentin's gaze out of the corner of his and immediately suppressed a laugh, knowing that they both imagined the farcical image of the guard smacking into the door. Eliot could hear the accompanying anvil sound clear as day. 

Nevertheless, the door was open before they reached it. Eliot nodded very seriously at the guard, giving him a little half-cocked salute, and managed to keep a lid on it until the door had swung shut behind him. Then he broke out into a peal of laughter, leaning back against the door as Quentin started giggling at his side.

"You're terrible!" Quentin accused, fingernails digging into the vulnerable flesh at the bend of Eliot's elbow through the thin material of his shirt.

"The absolute worst," Eliot agreed, reining in his mirth to meet Quentin's smiling face. "High King Eliot The Uncouth, that's me."

"I don't doubt it," Quentin said with a shake of his head, looking curiously around the castle, visible to them now that they were inside it. "By the by, what are we doing here?"

"Well, I'm looking for a spell," Eliot explained, missing the warmth of Quentin's hand on his arm now that there was some distance between them. Still, Quentin followed easily when Eliot turned away, walking the path he only vaguely remembered towards the set of double doors inlaid with polished copper. "And given your interest, I thought you might like to keep me company."

"Looking for a spell? Does that mean—"

But Quentin fell silent as Eliot pushed open the doors to the expansive library. The wide circular room spread out in front of them, filled with shelves packed with books. The sides of the room were entirely filled with shelves two stories high, balcony-style walkway running the entire room, accessible by several circular staircases. Still more shelves packed the main body of the room, all illuminated softly by the high domed glass ceiling spilling in sunlight from above.

"— books," Quentin finished weakly, the word dying on his lips. Eliot looked back at him, taking in the startled awe coloring his lovely face. His mouth was hanging open, the soft expanse of his neck on display as he stepped into the room craning to look upward. The burst of desire that pale expanse of skin elicited in Eliot felt almost improper in the face of such open reverence, but Eliot felt it nonetheless.

"Books," Eliot agreed, infinitely more fascinated by Quentin than the dusty tomes lining the walls.

"I never dreamed there were this many books in all of Fillory," Quentin breathed, clearly awestruck. Eliot felt a momentary pang, remembering the expansive library at Brakebills, of the New York Public Library. The library in The Castle That Isn't There was nowhere near as sprawling as that, though it did manage to outpace the library at Whitespire some. 

"Apparently, the last set of Kings and Queens decided that the only books worth keeping in Whitespire were battle magic and strategy books. They moved the rest of the lot out here," Eliot explained, watching as Quentin moved along one of the many shelves of books, his fingers trailing gently along their spines. "I'll admit I've only been here once, but I believe the High Queen has come a fair few times."

"I'd never leave," Quentin said reverently, pushing on ahead to round another corner, staring up at the shelves of books. He seemed alive in a way that made Eliot ache inside, unable to look away. Instead he was left watching Quentin with a reverence to match that which Quentin turned upon the books.

"What about them fascinates you so?"

A light dusting of pink spread across Quentin's cheeks as he ducked his head. The curtain of his hair swung in front of his face, obscuring his expression, before he roughly pushed it back behind his ear. Turning slightly, he leaned back against the wall next to a shelf, still looking down. When he spoke, the words were directed more to Eliot's boots than to his face, but Quentin's voice rang true all the same. "When I was a boy, my father used to read to me. Fantastical tales, the kind of thing that captures your imagination as a child. Long before I knew I had any magic, he made me believe I could better the world. He was a good man, kind, he— he wanted a good life for me. And— he died when I was six. But I still have the last book he ever gave to me."

Eliot swallowed a dull ache in his chest, unable to stop himself from wondering what that would be like. What must it be, to have a father who colored you memories of childhood with kindness and with hope? "You miss him," Eliot filled in, because that much was obvious in the hunch of Quentin's shoulders, the downturn of his mouth.

Quentin nodded, finally looking up to meet Eliot's gaze. "I'd rather hear his voice again than any other sound in the world."

Eliot nodded, looking away, an odd tangle of grief and compassion twisting in his chest. Grief, for the happy childhood he himself had never had, compassion for Quentin who had suffered losing it. "That's how you came to the orchard?" Quentin seemed to hesitate for a moment, mouth slightly parted, looking at Eliot with wary eyes. "Please, I don't mean to pry. I apologize, these must be painful memories. I simply— wish to know you better."

"I'm not sure why," Quentin said quietly, a kind of confused honesty bleeding out of him as he met Eliot's gaze. "I'm just a farm boy."

And, oh, wasn't that the great secret for the ages, the thing no one on this goat-fucked planet must ever know: Eliot, too, was just a farm boy, raised by magic and mishap to a station he was ill-equipped to handle. Frowning, Eliot stepped towards Quentin, reaching out with both hands to catch Quentin's in his. Quentin allowed himself to be caught, looking up at Eliot with skeptical, vulnerable eyes. "You're much more than that. You're a farm boy who loves books, and can do magic. Who has a sharp wit and a good aim, and a kind of courage I don't know if you even see. I'm honored to have your time, what of it you'll let me share."

"You can't—" Quentin started, and then let out a strangled laugh, shaking his head and looking away. "— just _say_ things like that."

"I think you'll find I can do whatever I like," Eliot said primly, leaning in before he could second-guess himself too much to press a kiss to Quentin's temple. "I am the High King after all."

"After all," Quentin echoed, and suddenly Eliot found himself— very close, hovering over Quentin, who at that moment was backed up against a shelf and straining to look up at him. Quentin's mouth was a soft pink bow, and a sharp bolt of longing coursed through Eliot's body from head to toe. It would be so easy to lean down and take his mouth in a kiss, to give in to temptation and allow himself the ease of desire and satiation. It would hardly be the first time, and yet—

And yet, Eliot thought he might like it not to be the last. A single tumble with Quentin now in the dust of the stacks held little appeal when the consequence might be a lifetime devoid of such sweet masculine companionship. Blinking, Eliot turned away, looking out into the room. "Pick one."

"What?" Quentin asked, voice weak.

"Pick one, it's yours." Eliot gestured expansively to the room before them.

"I— I cannot, sire! I could no sooner pick a favorite star in all the heavens."

Heart in his throat, Eliot turned back towards Quentin. Giving in to impulse, he reached out, catching a loose lock of brown hair and tucking it back behind Quentin's ear. Leaving his hand there, thumb stroking gently at Quentin's cheek, he whispered, " _Quentin_ , please."

"Eliot," Quentin repeated, and— Eliot could swear that Quentin nuzzled into his hand. Only just. "Thank you."

It was late afternoon by the time they took their leave, Quentin carrying not one but _three_ books. He blushed when Eliot offered his hand to help him into the carriage and though he tried to hide it, it was impossible when such beautiful pink blossomed across each cheek.

Much of the ride passed in comfort and quiet, Quentin absorbed in his acquisitions. As much as Eliot longed to hear the excited notes of his voice, it was just as pleasing to watch his mouth curve into a smile as he flipped through pages; it was just as delightful to see the way his fingers tapped along the edges of the pages as if communicating in some secret code, the vibration of his touch conveying all of his excitement and joy in much the way his gasping voice had done in the wide halls of the library.

So entranced was Eliot that he did not notice the carriage come to a stop. He heard voices, low at first but then rising to shouts, but in truth, it was only when Quentin looked up from his book that he entirely realized that something was amiss.

"What's going on?" Quentin asked in a wavering voice.

Eliot said, "Stay here."

Emerging from the carriage he was immediately met with his own guard backed up against the sides of it, their faces full of fear, knives to their noses.

He sighed. "What's this, then?"

"This, sir, is a robbery."

"Sire, more like. You understand the risk you're taking here, correct?"

"And what's that?"

"In robbing the High King?"

The bandits laughed. "Is that so, the _High King?_ "

Eliot couldn't help the way his eyes rolled. Surely he ought to be more careful given the amount of sharp objects pointed squarely at his middle, but as it was he felt little more than annoyed. As if these bandits should know of his romantic pursuits, as if they should understand the inopportune time of their intrusion, because didn't they _know,_ didn't they _understand_ , that inside the carriage was a beautiful boy who might change Eliot's whole entire—

"Eliot?" Quentin's voice came. Eliot's heart seized in panic as Quentin emerged from the carriage. A knife was at this throat the moment his feet hit the ground.

"Well, darling, these gentlemen seem to be robbing us," Eliot said without thinking. He cast an apologetic look toward Quentin, as if to say, _You know how it is, perils of the job_.

Quentin swallowed. "Indeed," he said, and laughed in a way Eliot hoped the bandits understood was nervous rather than mocking. Even in his compromised state, Eliot felt his stomach flutter with fondness at the sight of Quentin's smile.

"Oh," a burly man with dark hair said, "is this your sweetheart then? Perhaps we might extract something of value with him—"

With that, the bandit in a flurry of rags flung Quentin around into a chokehold. Eliot could swear that his very heart stopped.

"Let him go!" he cried out, a tickling sense of panic crawling up his spine as the bandit's blade dug into Quentin's throat. "I'm the one of value to you. Release him."

"Oh, the supposed king is feeling quite valiant, I see," came a voice from behind him. "Yet he makes no move to attack, to _defend_ his lover. He will certainly make an easy hostage." 

Eliot shook his head. These people were not— they were not _magic_ , they could not defend themselves against what Eliot might offend, king or otherwise. They did not understand it and it would not be fair, short of true and exacted violence, to use it against them. Even if they were too stupid to know a king when they saw one.

But as it happened, Quentin, with his unrefined spells and his untrained talent, was the one who saved the day. Even as the bandits unloaded the wagon of all its finery, breaking the spokes for good measure to prevent their escape, Quentin stood giant, his back straight.

"You _will_ return his things," Quentin demanded, hands on his hips, five foot eight inches of stubborn, glaring scowl. "And since you're sending me out onto the road alone, I demand a horse as well."

The bandit blinked, clearly taken aback. Perversely, Eliot was almost struck with a desire to laugh. Oh, he was well acquainted with that stubborn streak of Quentin's, had worn the bruises of spitefully lobbed stone fruits for days. "My apologies," the bandit said, grandiose, waving his arm towards the collection of their motley crew. "You may have whatever you can carry."

"Anything I can carry?" Quentin repeated, skeptical. Eliot looked at him, aghast. Certainly he had a plan that Eliot wasn't aware of, something that would get them out of this mess.

"Indeed," the bandit called. "On my honor, whatever you can carry."

"All right then." Quentin motioned for Eliot to draw nearer, and then he was dipping down, drawing one of Eliot's arms over his shoulder and moving to grasp for his knees. "You're telekinetic, right?" he whispered urgently. Eliot nodded as Quentin knelt and Eliot was baffled a moment longer before Quentin hissed, "Help me!"

Then he was over Quentin's sturdy shoulders, his long legs flailing about for longer than could be considered dignified before his magic caught and he felt the strain in Quentin's muscles eased.

"Good?" Eliot said, even as he grabbed for Quentin's waist.

"I think so," Quentin said quietly. With that, he bent one knee and bowed his head in a mockery of a curtsy. "Gentlemen. We'll be on our way."

Eliot waved and gave his most winning smile. Whatever could be said about him, the people of Fillory would never call him ill-tempered.

Quentin had only taken a few steps when the bandit's voice echoed through the copse and through, Eliot realized, peals of laughter.

"Please," the bandit said in between howls. "Please, take your things. You've earned it."

And thus, they found themselves in possession of a whole host of colorful new friends.

Merriment was heavy on the ground as the bandit troupe set up camp. They seemed to have decided that drinking with the High King was a good second option, if they couldn't ransom him, and it didn't take long for a roaring party to get underway. Laughter and chatter and music filled the air, and yet it all seemed to melt away as Quentin and Eliot ate together over the fire. Though around them there were still the sounds of revelry, of music and gleeful shouting, of drums and feet pounding as they danced, Eliot found that he only had eyes for Quentin. As the sun sank, the firelight cast him all in orange and gold, his natural colors, Eliot thought, bright and brave and indisputably him.

"So how did you find yourself king?" Quentin asked good-naturedly as he poured them each more wine.

"What's that mean?"

"Only that the monarchs are always Children of Earth, and they usually find themselves here by misadventure." Quentin raised his eyebrows and grinned, sipping his wine. _Imp_ , Eliot thought fondly.

"I suppose you could call it misadventure," Eliot conceded. He spared himself a moment to drink and collect his thoughts. This story had acquired a certain amount of embellishment over the previous months, thanks in equal parts to the spreading of rumor and Eliot and Margo's vested interest in maintaining an aura of mystery— and power. For a brief moment, he thought to tell it to Quentin with all its swashbuckling flair. But the soft expression on Quentin's face, the distilled interest in _Eliot_ rather than the High King, was too much to bear.

He took another fortifying drink before he said, "I was in a bad way. Margo— the High Queen— thought it would be good for me to get away from everything that reminded me of what happened."

Quentin did not respond, as if giving Eliot the space to continue. Another thing on the long list of things that Eliot had never noticed so strikingly in another person: the ability to wait, to give him room to find his own words and feelings.

"Well," he said, "That's the start of the story, I suppose. A sweeping love affair, and— a poor end to it, we'll say. But it was," he sighed and looked into his cup for guidance, like there might be tea leaves at the bottom. Truthfully, he hadn't talked about this with anyone but Margo, and even then it hadn't come with this rubbed-raw feeling, like skinned knees or rope burn. "I thought things were wonderful, that we were really in love, that maybe it'd be something, I don't know. It sounds so ridiculous now, but something that might last forever. And when it turned out he didn't feel that way, well." Eliot's mouth tightened as he raised his goblet. "I didn't handle it. At all."

Quentin smiled sadly. He reached forward to stroke Eliot's arm in consolation or empathy, Eliot wasn't sure. He dared to meet Quentin's gaze, however, and was rewarded for his bravery with the same tender, open expression he'd worn in the Library earlier that day; the expression he wore looking at something he cherished deeply, down to the core of his soul.

"I really thought I might die," Eliot admitted. "Either the grief would kill me or— what I was doing to myself would. As long as I couldn't feel the pain, I didn't care. But Margo cared. She cared, and she'd read books of Fillory, and— we never expected to find it." He laughed, a little doleful.

"I imagine not," Quentin said softly. "Who expects to actually find the stuff of legends?"

"Certainly not me," Eliot agreed, and. Having at last met Quentin's eyes, he found that he couldn't look away, not from the rich brown warmed in the firelight. "I expected I'd die in the trying— but Margo's too stubborn for that. So we found ourselves here, in this strange place."

"And they made you a king," Quentin summarized, pulling his knees up to his chest. A wistful smile crossed his face, something deeper and stranger, another one of those flashes that made Eliot wonder if he really knew Quentin at all.

"It wasn't quite that simple," Eliot said with a laugh, glancing away towards the fire and then back towards Quentin, rapid. And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? The truth of the matter, the reason Eliot had taken Quentin to the Library in the first place. Not, as much as he wished it could be, an altruistic gesture. Not something he did purely to make Quentin happy, but because Eliot _needed_ him to be happy. But the words stuck in Eliot's throat, a paralyzing terror he couldn't explain.

"Sire?"

"Eliot," he reminded Quentin absently even as his heart leapt at the soft smile that blossomed on Quentin's face. God, he deserved to know. Now that he knew so much of Eliot's past it seemed only right that he knew the extent of his feelings and indeed, the truth of his fate. It might not be a proper proposal, but— he owed Quentin the right to his own decision.

"I made a bargain," Eliot spit out. "With a knifemaker. Margo made me take the blood test, she," he broke off with a laugh, scrubbing his free hand over his face. "—we both thought it was a joke, really. As if _I'd_ be High King, when I could barely stand for being so drunk, for being so heartbroken. But she insisted, and the knifemaker would only administer the test if I agreed to marry his daughter within the year, and, well." He shrugged and knocked back the rest of his wine.

"You're getting married," Quentin concluded, his face going ashen even in the firelight.

"I am," Eliot confirmed, his heart racing in his chest as he looked at Quentin's stricken face. "The day I met you, Quentin, I'd just been to speak with Dint— that is, the knifemaker. That's why I passed out in your barn. He called in the bargain and I found myself faced with a life I never wanted. In fact, a life I thought I'd left behind. But I have a chance, a slim one, to build something for myself that I actually want. That's why I went to see Ember that day. _You_ helped me convince him, with your cakes, to let me have a chance to choose for myself. So he gave me two weeks: find a natural born child of Fillory who _I_ would like to marry in Fen's place. But I _must_ marry on the Spring Equinox, or be banished forever."

Quentin looked at his palm, tracing the lines of it. Eliot's heart went from racing to stalled as quickly as it had sped up, his skin prickling with anxiety. Surely he had not misinterpreted the time they'd spent together; surely Quentin had to know how Eliot felt. But suddenly his heart was full of fear. He had not considered the possibility that his feelings might not be reciprocated and felt increasingly foolish as he waited for Quentin to speak.

At last Quentin took a deep breath, though he did not look up. "So you must have someone in mind, then, to go through with it so soon."

Eliot laughed, something between bewilderment and delight. "I do, yes," he exclaimed, and reached to take Quentin's hand. He rubbed his thumb over Quentin's palm, meaning it as a gesture of encouragement. When he saw the expression on Quentin's face when he finally looked up, however, Eliot realized that he had been perceived as conciliatory.

"Well," Quentin said, squeezing and releasing Eliot's hand. "I wish Your Majesty the greatest happiness." With that, he took his hand back and moved to stand.

"Quentin, _no_ , don't you see? How can you not— I mean _you."_ Eliot reached desperately for him, anything to keep him from walking away, anything to make Quentin believe him. Relief filled him as Quentin turned again to face him, his grasp tightening.

Even so, his eyes seemed full of grief, their tears sparkling and obvious.

"Sire, you don't—"

" _Eliot_ ," Eliot repeated, watching, concerned, as Quentin took a deep breath. Did Quentin not— had Eliot misread the situation entirely?

"Eliot," Quentin echoed, eyes flicking up to Eliot's face.

"I'm just a man. Same as you."

"Not quite the same," Quentin breathed out on a huff, and his eyes positively sparkled in the fire light. Eliot became aware, all at once, that he was still holding Quentin's hand. Solid, sturdy hands, Quentin had, with a dusting of hair across the back, perfect for Eliot to run his thumb over. "I dare say I'm better read than you."

"I dare say you're right," Eliot agreed, a bubble of some feeling akin to hope starting in his chest as Quentin looked up at him. "Clearly I am in desperate need of your counsel."

"Is that all? My counsel?" Quentin's lips formed such beautiful shapes when he spoke, the clever curve of a smile writing a dimple into his cheek.

"Perhaps there are one or two other things I could... use assistance with."

He expected another volley of witty repartee. He did not expect Quentin to surge up towards him, as though he might lose his courage for the action if he did not undertake it all at once, and push up to kiss him. 

Without thinking, Eliot deepened this kiss, cradling Quentin's jaw to guide him closer. He felt as though fireworks exploded above them, so warm he felt under Quentin's hands and lips. It was better than anything he'd dreamt of— and he had dreamt often in the few days since Quentin had first stumbled upon him in the barn, thought nearly constantly of the bow of Quentin's lips, of his dimples, of the awful creases of his brow and at the corners of his eyes.

When he pulled away, after what felt like hours and— God, it might have been, Eliot half expected the sun to be up when he opened his eyes. But it wasn't, the moon still shone overhead, casting its blue light against the warmth of the fire.

"Was that sufficient counsel?"

Eliot laughed, moving in to press another kiss to his lips. "I think so. Perhaps you could give me advice on the needs of the people as well?"

Even as Quentin smiled, his eyes seemed sad. "I think I could," he said quietly. "The people think of you as a kind king, but I've gotten the impression that you don't know the struggles we face."

"Have you?" Eliot said. He did his best, even as he stroked a thumb over the ridge of Quentin's cheek, to be serious, to meet Quentin's ever-present earnestness with sincerity. 

"Yes, but."

"But what?"

"It's getting late."

"Is it?" 

"Which is only to say," Quentin sighed, and he was truly a fool if he thought Eliot could not see the quirk at the corner of his mouth. Eliot pinched at his waist and pressed a kiss to the tender skin beneath one eye, then the other. "Which is only to _say_ ," Quentin repeated, "that maybe this conversation would be better continued in one of those tents." 

"Oh," Eliot said, dumbstruck. With that, Quentin moved to stand again and this time, Eliot followed.

The smile that graced Quentin's face in that moment was bright, blinding, outshining the fire and even the moon above. Eliot could not tell if it was the wine or something else, but he could not help but feel as if his entire future might exist in the light of Quentin's smile, stretching out in all directions, soft and safe and hemmed in only by the delicate curve of Quentin's dimples. He could see it, he was sure, for the first time: the possibility of a full life, his kingdom and his love and everything terrible about him tucked there, in the safe and giving place where Quentin's smile met his cheek.

"Only if you want," Quentin said. It was then that Eliot realized one of Quentin's hands was tight in the folds of his shirt.

"Christ, Q, I," he laughed and pressed his face into Quentin's neck. As he did so, he couldn't help but pull Quentin closer to him, to feel the lines of their bodies pressed so close to one another. Eliot spared a moment to breathe in the smoke-drenched scent of him, to feel the line of Quentin's cock pressed against his thigh. For a moment, the rest of the world fell away, and they were no longer standing by the edge of a circle of firelight, being whooped at by their new friends. For just a moment, the only person in the whole world was Quentin, there in his arms, perfectly sized for Eliot to hold. He inhaled again and said, "Of course I want. Since I first saw you I wanted."

The vibration of Quentin's chuckle echoed in Eliot's chest. "Thank the Gods," he said, and whatever he had to say next, Eliot cut off with his eager kisses.

Whatever Eliot might have imagined Quentin would be like as a bedmate, and he had imagined it in the furtive hours of late night sprawled in the royal silks at Whitespire, he would not have imagined Quentin's _smile_ would fascinate him so. And yet he could feel it against his mouth as Eliot slid his hands up and down the sides of Quentin's torso, the fabric of his tunic rough under Eliot's palms. 

"Ticklish?" he asked, pulling back, but Quentin shook his head, that corner of his smile creasing his cheek that Eliot had to kiss, until Quentin was squirming and laughing, his hands catching on Eliot's shoulders.

"Not ticklish. You're just— Gods, Eliot, you're incredible."

Another time, Eliot might have responded with a quip in agreement, dismissing the compliment in a show of bravado that discouraged anyone else from paying him another. Only now, he found himself speechless and vulnerable, staring down at Quentin's lovely face in the dim light. He was nothing if not earnestly lovely, wholly present, smiling up at Eliot as he ran his hands across the planes of Eliot's shoulders, up to the collar of his shirt. 

"Darling, I—" Eliot started, breathless, as Quentin's smile spread again, sweet dimples casting shadows in the light. 

"May I see you bare?" Quentin asked, voice soft in the almost-quiet their little bubble of privacy. His hands slide up to the fastenings of Eliot's shirt, already undone and open at his collar for the revelry. Quentin's fingers on the tender skin at the base of Eliot's throat sent shivers chasing down Eliot's spine.

"Once we get out of sight," Eliot laughed, though he did not stop Quentin from opening his shirt. 

"I never took you for a spoilsport," Quentin said as he finished undoing the clasps. Thankfully, he didn't reach up to push Eliot's shirt and coat entirely off his shoulders— despite Eliot's reputation, he did have some sense of self-preservation— instead sliding one hand down to take Eliot's own. "If we must," he said airily and Eliot realized, then, that Quentin was _teasing him_ , mimicking Eliot's own lofty tone.

"Brat," he said sharply, and squeezed Quentin's hand before he led them to the tent. 

"Will this do for His Highness?" Quentin said as he crouched beneath the flaps.

"You should've seen the places I slept back home," Eliot said. Quentin cast him a quizzical look, almost sympathetic, and Eliot waved it off before he could find his words. "Where were we? Here?" With that, he reached forward to tug Quentin forward and undo his own simpler clasps, wooden toggles where Eliot had ornate buttons of brass and silver. As he moved down, he watched, fascinated, as Quentin's breath seemed to quicken, the rise and fall of his chest becoming unsteady beneath Eliot's hands.

Now undone, Eliot slipped his hands under Quentin's shirt, pinching briefly at his ribs just to see Quentin squirm before he skimmed up his arms. He reveled in the feeling of Quentin's skin under his palms, the furred stretch of his forearms and the smoother skin of his biceps, unable to deny the heat that churned in his belly at the feeling of firm muscle. At last, he moved to push the tunic off of Quentin's shoulders, and at last he was there: bare-chested in the faraway firelight. 

Quentin ducked his head, seemingly suddenly overcome by a bout of shyness, but Eliot found himself captivated. Mind of a scholar or no, Quentin was lean and strong, with muscle definition in his arms and shoulders to match the rough calluses on his hands. Soft downy hair scattered across his chest, leaving Eliot with thoughts of lazy afternoons spent in bed, where he would be free to pet Quentin as much as he liked, where he might do it for hours, stopping only to eat and even then, only when the palace staff reminded them.

It was a wonderful fantasy, but now was not the time for fantasy and inaction. No, instead Eliot stepped in close enough to duck his head, as he had out by the fire, and place his mouth on the bare skin of Quentin's shoulder. He pressed soft, sucking kisses, until he could feel Quentin start unwind, melt against him. 

"It has been," Quentin sighed out, rocking up onto his toes a little, so that their bodies pushed together, "— a little while since I've been this close to a man, and that wasn't— please, Eliot, please let me touch you."

"Touch me," Eliot agreed, trailing his kisses up towards Quentin's neck, nosing through his curtain of hair to kiss against his pulse. Quentin arched beautifully on a gasp, and Eliot momentarily allowed himself to be distracted, occupied instead with leaving love-bites all across his neck. His skin was salty underneath Eliot's tongue and rough toward his jaw where stubble began. It had been a long time since Eliot had been ashamed of loving men, but the revelation of how good it felt— to kiss at a rough jaw, to feel the hard line of a cock and grasp at narrow hips— had never, ever gotten old.

Quentin's hands were a light pressure where they skimmed over his back, then down to cup his ass, to pull him forward. Then they were at his belt, fumbling blindly with the buckle while his breath quickened underneath Eliot's lips. "Touch me," Eliot said again, more urgent this time, his own heart quickening in his chest.

"Oh," Quentin laughed as he slipped his hand into Eliot's trousers, " _oh._ " 

"'Oh'?"

"I've just— I've heard rumors."

"You've heard _rumors_?"

Quentin giggled, face ducking down against the open front of Eliot's shirt. Quentin's breath fanned out across Eliot's chest, making his skin prickle and his nipples go hard, sensitive and scratching against the inside of his own shirt. It was everything he could do in the moment not to just rub helplessly against Quentin's hand, solid and sturdy and exploring in the open front of Eliot's trousers. Surely the angle was murder on his wrist, but he didn't seem bothered, kissing at the base of Eliot's throat. "Tales of Your _Majesty_ have spread far throughout the land, sire."

"God," Eliot laughed, incredulous. "Glad to hear my cock's reputation precedes me."

"I dared not believe them."

"Thought much about it, have you?" Eliot teased, suddenly desperate to see Quentin's face. Cupping his hand along Quentin's jaw, he tipped up Quentin's head until their gazes met. Quentin's eyes sparkled with mischief, even as his smile shaded towards embarrassment.

"I've tried not to," he admitted, and then pushed up on his toes, nuzzling in for a kiss. "But I will admit, your wet breeches yesterday were _some_ indicator."

Eliot couldn't help but laugh. "Ah, so you _were_ staring," he mused, a warm wash of contentment flooding his stomach as he looked down at Quentin's flushed, eager face. "Why have you been trying not to, sweet boy? I want you to think about me. I think about you."

"You do?"

"Yes," Eliot admitted, the word drawn out into a hiss as Quentin's fist moved loosely over his cock. "You've been on my mind since I met you, Quentin. Can you truly blame me for wondering what it might be to kiss you? To feel your skin?"

"I suppose not," Quentin said, his breath hot on Eliot's neck. Eliot swore he could feel Quentin's smile there, even as he tipped his head back, lost in the feeling of Quentin's mouth, of Quentin's hand. "You should consider," Quentin said between kisses, "doing something," another kiss, long and sucking against Eliot's skin and _God_ , that would bruise, Eliot knew— "about it."

"If you'd stop long enough to let me." Then Quentin's hand and mouth were gone and Eliot was suddenly miserably cold, bereft of his touch. Quentin had even taken a step back, his hands held up in supplication as he grinned wickedly. "You're terrible," Eliot growled before he pulled Quentin close by the ties on his trousers, undoing them as he did.

"I am," Quentin laughed, then he was gasping as Eliot finally touched him, dragging his fingers over the hot length of him.

The loose material of Quentin's trousers fell away easily, leaving Eliot able to _see_ , oh, and what a sight. Strong, furred thighs, and the heavy dick between them, shorter than Eliot's but thick, oh, _lovely_ , the head was already flushed red and wet. Quentin seemed to feel every touch with his whole body, rocking on his toes into every movement with his whole body. He was entirely bare before Eliot, a hot flush of pink spreading down across his neck and chest, begging for Eliot's mouth on his skin. "Quentin," Eliot breathed out, because Quentin was looking nervous again, like somehow _he_ might disappoint. "Darling, you are a masterpiece, I hardly know where to put my mouth first."

"How about you just kiss me again," Quentin offered wryly, and well. Eliot was happy to accommodate, Quentin's hot, wet, eager mouth opening under his like a dream. Hands sliding down Quentin's back, Eliot got himself two wonderful handfuls of Quentin's ass, pulling him up onto his toes until their cocks brushed, Eliot's still jutting out the open front of his trousers. "This is entirely unfair," Quentin broke the kiss to protest, gratifyingly breathless. "That I am so exposed, when you retain all your kingly trappings. I asked first, you know, to be allowed to look."

"You did," Eliot conceded, and reached for Quentin's hands to bring them to his waistband. Slowly, he pushed Quentin's fingers beneath the fabric and further down, until his trousers slipped from his hips into a pool on the floor. "Better?"

"Almost," Quentin said, and pushed his shirt from where it clung valiantly to his shoulders. And then it was suddenly just the two of them, naked before one another in the low light, any hint of difference between king and commoner disappearing into the piles of clothes at their feet.

Though he was not lacking in confidence, Eliot was most at home in finery. Whether it be the collared shirts and ties and waistcoats he had become accustomed to in his early adulthood, or the velvet and chiffon of his regal wardrobe, he had always known the language of clothing, had always understood how to present himself in precisely the way he wished the world to perceive him. But standing there, naked before Quentin's warm and undemanding gaze, he wondered if perhaps this was what he had been waiting for all that time: someone to perceive him only as himself. 

He held out a hand to pull Quentin close, to get his hands back under Quentin's ass and feel the delicious slide of their cocks against one another again. Only this time it was so much better, with the feeling of Quentin's bare chest against his, the warm weight of it sure as he held him close and thrust against him.

Then Quentin pressed gently at Eliot's shoulders, his intent clear and his lead easy to follow until Eliot was on his back, Quentin straddling his hips. 

"Look your fill," Eliot murmured, arching his back up a little under the press of Quentin's hands against his chest. Quentin just smiled, and did as bid. And _oh_ , it was nice to be looked at, appreciated and _seen_ , not simply as a king one might bed for royal favor, though Eliot had as good as promised him that. No, Quentin looked at him with open appreciation and no small amount of hunger, no matter how shy his smile may be.

"I dare say you like being looked at."

"I dare say you're right," Eliot agreed, pushing up until his palms were flat on the bed. Even straddling him, Quentin was mere inches taller than him, and it was a simple thing for Eliot to catch his jaw, tug him in for a filthy, sucking kiss. Quentin wriggled in his lap, delicious squirmy little thing, and Eliot groaned at the drag of Quentin's body along his cock, flushed hard already. 

In the palace, at Whitespire, Eliot would take Quentin spread out across silk sheets. With oil tinged with magic, he'd work his lover open with fingers, with his tongue perhaps, guiding him to relax and stretch until Eliot could seat the whole of his cock deep in Quentin's body. He'd fuck him long and slow, until Quentin was incoherent, and then fast and hard, until he was screaming. And _oh_ , Eliot _would_ do that someday, he would, but all he could do until then was grab handfuls of Quentin's ass and flip them over, so that Quentin was the one on his back on the pile of blankets that would suffice for a bed, hair fanned out beneath him like a halo.

"So that's how it is then?" Quentin laughed, tipping his head back to expose his throat in an echo of Eliot's earlier performance.

"That's how it is," Eliot said, and bowed his head to mouth at the column of it. Quentin's hands were quick to his hair, pulling for a moment before he seemed to register his actions and his grip relaxed, his fingers skittering over the back of Eliot's neck before coming to rest between his shoulder blades. 

Eliot took his time, kissing over Quentin's clavicles and stopping to lathe at the notch above his breastbone in between. There he tasted the salt of Quentin's sweat and the sweetness of his skin and the musk of their day, of pine needles and of woodsmoke and somewhere beneath it all, Eliot's own scent, from kisses and from the way Quentin had carried him. Eliot breathed a laugh into his chest. When he failed to stifle it, Quentin seized the opportunity to pull again at his hair and force him to look up.

"What's so funny?"

Eliot's laughter only grew as he recalled the way Quentin had easily tossed him over his shoulders, how he hadn't realized that Eliot didn't trigger his telekinesis for several paces. "Nothing," Eliot said, and pressed another kiss to his chest. "Only you're so lovely."

"You really think so?" Quentin said and it was not— it wasn't timid or even coy. Instead it was only _teasing_ , the lilt in his tone making it clear that Quentin only wished to goad Eliot into further compliments.

"You, sir," Eliot intoned, dropping to press a kiss to the span of Quentin's ribs, "are going to be trouble, aren't you?"

He expected another quip, cutting remark, or tug on his hair, but Quentin stayed quiet. His hand, instead of tugging, carded loosely through Eliot's hair, and when Eliot looked up at him, he looked thoughtful and— oddly closed off again. Which was not what Eliot wanted, not at all, not when everything had felt so easy. "Q?"

"Just— kiss me?" Quentin asked, and his voice was so soft Eliot almost couldn't hear it over the continued revelry outside the tent. "Just be with me, please?"

"I'm here," Eliot promised, levering himself up until he was poised over Quentin, looking down at him. "Are you alright, darling?"

"Kiss me and I will be."

Eliot could only oblige. He thought that he could kiss Quentin forever, like this, their chests and bellies rubbing easily against one another. He could not help but dream of the lifetime of these touches that awaited them both, of caresses, of kisses in the morning and evening both, simple and hungry. In all his years, he had never dared to hope for such luck. And now it lay in front of him, visible in the tender curve of Quentin's mouth that Eliot was helpless to resist.

Then Quentin's mouth was sliding away as his body turned and he was on his belly, his back broad and bare beneath Eliot. Eliot sucked in a breath at the new expanse of skin open to him, at the churn of Quentin's muscle and the divot of his spine where sweat collected.

Worse still was the way Quentin had put his ass directly beneath Eliot's cock.

" _Fuck_ ," Eliot gasped, the word punched out of him as his the line of his cock caught on the crease of Quentin's ass, sparks of pleasure racing up his spine. "Quentin, we can't—"

"Please, Eliot," Quentin asked, begged almost, in the quiet of the tent, "I just— let's just pretend, okay? I want to feel you."

"What are we pretending?" Eliot asked, confusion warring with the instinct to just rut his cock against the lovely curve of Quentin's ass. He was, _oh_ , just so— pretty and pink and furred, the toned muscle of his cheeks and the secret winking furl of his hole. And— _Jesus_ , Eliot wanted to be _inside_ , so much, but this was— good, too, excellent really, as he sank his weight down onto his elbows, so he could blanket over Quentin.

"That the sun will never rise," Quentin sighed, relaxing immediately under the pressure of Eliot's body. "That we might be able to keep this night forever after this."

Eliot pressed hips against Quentin's to feel the sweet burn of his cock between Quentin's cheeks, to press back down and imagine again the feeling of sinking into him. He understood what Quentin meant— the desire to hold, to keep a moment so precious close to him that it might last forever. He wanted much the same. Even now, he already cataloged each sigh, each twitch of muscle, the heat of Quentin beneath him. 

"Of course, darling," he said, and pressed again to feel Quentin tense beneath him, "sweetheart, nothing will ever be as good as this. I'll keep you forever and always remember the way it first felt to hold you, to kiss you, to bring you pleasure."

Quentin's breath shuddered on a sob as he rode back against Eliot's hips, into Eliot's arms. Words seemed to be lost to him, and despite all of Eliot's romantic utterances they now felt lost to him as well. They fell into a rhythm, the pattern of their breath slowly sliding from alternating into synchronized as Quentin's body matched Eliot's movements. Eliot felt increasingly mad with it, the slick slide of their bodies together and the way Quentin still sought out words even as they continued to elude him, the way he gasped half of Eliot's name and fragments of desperate pleas.

Eliot wanted more even though— it wouldn't be right, not here, not like this, not when he couldn't take his time, when he couldn't make it as good as he wanted, as he knew he could. But he could give Quentin a taste. He could give Quentin so much to look forward to. Spreading his palm across the warm span of Quentin's belly, he pulled up on his knees, taking Quentin with him until they were pressed together, hip to hip.

"No," Quentin gasped, and Eliot's heart dropped before he continued, "like this," and rolled onto his side, guiding Eliot blindly with him until he was curved around Quentin, their spines like commas, his cock tucked in the heat of Quentin's thighs. Grasping at Quentin's hip, Eliot gave an experimental thrust, rocking against his body as Quentin urged him on with a hand at the back of his thigh. "Yes, that's, that's perfect," Quentin said, his voice thin. 

"Yeah?"

 _"Yes,"_ Quentin laughed as Eliot pulled them together again and Eliot was helpless, then, he needed to kiss Quentin more than he had ever needed anything else in his life. He released Quentin's hip to hold his chin and turn his face to kiss him, keeping him there as he moved. Breathless, Quentin gasped into Eliot's mouth, "Touch me, _please_."

Eliot was only too happy to comply. One palm cupped warm and possessive over Quentin's throat, Eliot slid the other hand down to reach between his legs, get his fist around the stiff hot line of Quentin's cock. It felt so good in his hand, thick and solid, the perfect length for Eliot to work his thumb against the head again and again and again. Quentin let out a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, his thighs clamping down tight, which, _oh—_

It was bliss, truly blissful, to rut on animal instinct between the hot firm channel of Quentin's thighs, to chase pleasure even as he sucked messy kisses onto Quentin's mouth. It felt _right_ to hold Quentin's vulnerable cock in his hand, tug at him until he was shuddering and cursing and writhing in Eliot's arms. It was the most right thing Eliot had ever felt.

With a shudder, Eliot realized that they'd get to do this for the rest of their lives. As he gave Quentin his fist to fuck and reveled in the slickness of their sweat, of the way they moved so easily together, almost as if, and _God_ , Eliot almost laughed at himself for the thought, as if they had never had anyone else, as if they were _made_ for each other and each other alone. 

Quentin craned his neck somehow further and Eliot saw that his eyes were glassy, his mouth open and pink. 

"Please," he almost whispered, his voice shot through with obvious pleasure, "will you let me feel you?" 

"Is that what you want?" 

" _Yes_ ," Quentin sobbed, broken open and cracked through, trembling in Eliot's arms. Sweat prickled all over his body, beading up in his hairline and slick-along the front of his chest, and yet all Eliot wanted was to be closer. Hysterically, he thought all he would ever want was to be closer, to feel every single inch of Quentin's bare skin on his, for them to become so entangled they might never part. 

In the end, it wasn't difficult to succumb to the bloom of pleasure deep inside him. The channel of Quentin's thighs was warm and soft and tight, and Eliot felt simply surrounded by him, the smell of his skin, the taste of him when Eliot kissed open mouthed at his shoulder, the feeling of his hot, wet, sturdy cock in Eliot's hand. No, Eliot sped towards completion easily, gasping his pleasure into Quentin's ear as he spent between his legs.

" _Eliot_ ," Quentin moaned, desperate, hips working to fuck his cock into Eliot's fist. It was all Eliot could do to keep his hand tight as aftershocks ricocheted through him, murmuring praises and encouragement as Quentin chased his completion. He wished he could see it, see release bloom across Quentin's face. But of course, there was no rush, after all. He would have a lifetime to devote to seeing Quentin in the throes of pleasure.

Quentin came with a soft, hurt sound, fingers going tight on Eliot's wrist. Eliot could do nothing but melt into him and nose in the back of Quentin's hair, the soft feeling of his name on Eliot's tongue.

They lay together for a long time after that. At some point Eliot mustered the energy to clean them with a lazy series of gestures, though later he would hardly remember doing so through the haze that followed such pleasure. What he would remember, however, was this: the way Quentin had turned and laid his head on Eliot's chest, nuzzling there even in his sleep as if it was something they had done a hundred times before.


	5. Chapter 5

In the days following their night together, time seemed to slow. Quentin found himself readily distracted. Though he went about his work with as much enthusiasm as he could manage— which, truth be told, had never been much to start with— he could not deny the way his mind wandered. As he scrubbed the dishes left from breakfast, unbidden images would return to him. Eliot's kind eyes in the firelight. How he had held Quentin's hand with such tenderness which had later given way to the firm grip of his big hand— gods, his _big hand_ — on Quentin's hip. The way that Eliot's hair had stuck to his skin with sweat. And then, that morning. The way Eliot had looked at him as he'd blinked awake. His eyes full of tender awe so obvious that Quentin had been helpless to resist kissing him, even as he knew that their fates would never yet entwine. Eliot had ridden back with him to manor house in early light, on the horse liberated from their colorful new bandit friends. There Eliot had kissed him goodbye in the brand-new light of the morning with a whispered promise of a message to come, full of hope for a future Quentin knew they would never see.

And so there were water stains on the wine glasses; soot left on the mantle. The coffee he made was alternately too weak or too strong and more than once he found himself reslicing bread for the toast which he could not stop burning.

Such distraction could not go unnoticed for long.

It was midafternoon when he found himself with a moment's peace. Thus freed, he sought out his books. The stories of Fillory that his father had often read him as a boy, the tales which had always been such an immense comfort, beckoned to him once more. The tales told of a magical land — which he now inhabited but nevertheless when put to page carried an indefatigable sentimentality — reminding him what he had longed to find in the first place: A place where he felt at home. A place where he belonged.

He did not notice Marina enter the room until she was over his shoulder.

"You've been soppy lately," she said, pressing a brutish kiss to his temple. "What's got poor Quentin so distracted, hm? Surely no one would ever smell the likes of _you_ and find a man worth pursuing."

Quentin rolled his eyes. His tolerance for Marina had always been high, for as given to cruelty as she was he had over the years learned to maneuver her barbs with some agility, leaping under and over them like a questing creature. Still she tested his patience. He had half a mind to tell her who, precisely, had pursued him as of late, just to see the rouge of imperial jealousy color her face.

"Hardly," he said. "Perhaps I've just had better things to think about than how you take your toast." He did not look up at her as he spoke, keeping his eyes instead on his book. 

He felt the huff of her breath on his neck, hot with irritation. A second passed in which he thought she might not see fit to torment him further, but then her hands were boxing his ears and his book was gone from his hands.

"You think that I didn't notice your absence the other night? Julia is a terrible liar by the way, though a loyal one. She did try to cover for you. But by the time it was clear you weren't coming back in the night, I just knew I had to wait up and see where you'd gone off to. You think you're so clever, but I saw you with the High King when you rode in at sunrise"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I know you were with him," she said. "For at least a night or two." Her teeth glinted in the light when she smiled, catlike and carnivorous. "What did you think would happen, honestly? That he would rescue you? That he would take you away to live in a castle like all your little fantasies? As if he would ever want someone like you. As if he would waste his time on anything more than _base_ with someone like you."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Quentin snapped. He lunged toward her to grab for the book and at the last second she dodged him, spinning out of his grasp and holding the book as far away from him as she was capable.

"Honestly, it would be embarrassing if it weren't so funny to imagine a dirty little thing like you cavorting with royalty. Does he make you feel special? Do you feel like someone important when you're with him? I bet he's just humoring you anyway, being kind to the sad little farm boy who no one has ever loved. I bet he enjoyed it, too, though not like you did. Don't you know he loves fucking all manner of fawning idiots? Everyone says so. All you need is a half-willing mouth and King Eliot will be _all over you_."

"Stop it!" Quentin cried. Again he lunged for her but his vision was blurry with tears composed equally of rage and sadness. He couldn't stop the small voice that lived eternally at the back of his mind, the one that whispered endless thoughts of doubt, of fear. In that moment it seemed to grow louder because— certainly Eliot could never love someone like him, orphaned and covered in ashes as he was. Not when he had the whole world available to him. 

He pressed his hands against his eyes to stem his tears and looked up to meet Marina's vicious glare. "You don't know him." 

"That doesn't change the fact, Quentin, that nothing will ever come of it."

"You don't _know_ that."

"Oh but I do, little Earth child." Something of Quentin's expression must have given him away, for in that instant her lips curled and her eyelashes fluttered suddenly in delight. "Oh, he doesn't even know, does he? Who you really are? For shame, Quentin. You've been keeping secrets from the king."

"No, it's not— it's not like that," he swore, though to Eliot or Marina he didn't know. Defeated, he fell onto the bed, covering his face.

"But I think it is," she said. While he couldn't see her face, he was intimately familiar with the leonine expression she wore. The same she had when she had once tipped him into the well twenty years ago and the same she'd worn whenever she had the opportunity to ruin something happy for someone else. The bed dipped as she sat down beside him. "It's interesting," she said, patting his knee.

Without thinking he said, "What is?"

"These books you adore. They're tales of Fillory and yet— they're not _of_ Fillory."

His stomach dropped in dread. Despite his better instincts, he could not stop himself from asking, "What's your point?"

"Only that it would be a shame if the king were to know how you came to possess them, before you had the chance to tell him yourself."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, Quentin," she said, her tone all mocking sweetness. "I absolutely would." With that she stood again and made for the door, book in hand. On leaden limbs he tried to follow her but the weight of his despair was too great; he fell to his knees in the doorway and yelled after her.

"Marina!" he sobbed. He watched as she disappeared down the stairs and, paralyzed as he was, could not follow.

Then he heard a crash and the unmistakable sound of something heavy hitting the floor. Reinvigorated by panic, he rushed down the stairs to find Marina flattened with Julia standing above her.

"What did you _do_?" he asked, awed and halfway to laughter. 

Julia shrugged. "Just some sisterly horseplay," she said, and reached down to pluck the book from Marina's hand. "I believe this is yours, Q."

Gratefully he took it and clutched it to his breast. "Thank you, Jules."

On the ground, Marina groaned as she sat up. "You won't get away with this, you witch," she growled, as the red and purple evidence of Julia's fist already began to make itself obvious across her cheekbone. Julia only rolled her eyes and extended a hand to help Marina to her feet, laughing when she swatted it away. "We'll see whose side you wish you'd taken when the king learns about this. _Which he will_ ," she said, turning to look at Quentin, "whether you tell him or not." With that, she stormed out of the house, leaving nothing but the heavy scent of her perfume behind.

"What was that about?" Julia asked.

At the sound of her familiar kindness, Quentin felt something in his chest come loose, like a storm at last breaking over the hot summer plains. "Jules," he said quietly even as the tears came, "I don't know what to do."

"Let me fetch some wine, then we'll talk."

He laughed and held his book more tightly. "Please do," he said.

On tiptoes she reached to place a kiss on his cheek. "I'll see you in the kitchen." Quentin nodded and watched her go, grateful as ever for her presence. Strength where he had weakness; surety where he had doubt. He could only hope that he provided as much mortar for her wants as she did for his.

He took his usual seat at the small table by the window while he waited. Despite the courage with which Julia filled him, his lingering doubts still bubbled beneath the surface. For surely some part of what Marina had said was right, no matter the cruelty of her intentions. The fact remained tha Eliot was bound equally by duty and magic to marry a native Fillorian. And nothing could change the fact that Quentin was not _of_ Fillory, no matter the depth of his love for the world that had become his home.

Julia's footsteps broke his reverie. "Here we are," she said, and set two glasses on the table. She poured them each a generous serving and sat down opposite Quentin, giving herself an only slightly poetic pause to sip her wine before leveling Quentin with that familiar stare of hers. Loving and questioning in equal measure, it was the same way she had looked at him since he had first come to the orchard all those years ago.

"So," she said carefully. At least she had the good grace to wait until he had downed the better part of his glass. He steeled himself while she refilled it.

"Jules," he said, and already the tears were working their way back up his throat. "I'm so stupid."

"Q, no— tell me, what's happened?"

Though he kept many details to himself— all those precious memories which he would keep gilded in the chambers of his heart forever, not just of Eliot naked and close but the way he had looked at Quentin in the library, the feeling of his hand on Quentin's waist as he had guided him through the halls— there was no stopping the torrent of emotion. He told her of the ease with which he and the king had conversed, how— 

"He wants to _marry you_?" Julia said, her voice less incredulous and more full of awe.

"That's what he said, yes."

"Quentin, that's—" she paused as if searching for words, her eyes flicking across the table as she sought them. He braced himself for more shame, for the creep of heat over his cheeks. But then Julia smiled and said, "That's absolutely _fucking_ wonderful. Why didn't you say anything?" she refilled each of their glasses and raised hers in a toast. "To your happily ever after."

Quentin allowed himself a moment to bask in the glow of this fantasy; to imagine that he and Eliot were properly betrothed. That they had met perhaps as equals, or at least as a couple with a future together. As he clinked his glass against Julia's, the picture of Eliot in all white before him, a ring in his hand and vows on his lips, crossed his mind unbidden. He shook his head and drank.

"It's not to be, Jules. It's impossible."

"Is it truly?"

" _Yes,_ " he said. "I'm not, I'm not _of Fillory_. He struck a deal with Ember and he has to marry a true-born child of Fillory and I— I don't fit the bill. But I don't, I don't know how to tell him. I can't bear to think of losing him." It was a pain to admit it but it was true and felt so. He only wished that he could share the truth with Eliot. Suddenly he hated Fillory and its gods, its fields and its mountains and its— its stupid _whims,_ all of those things that felt now like nothing more than barriers between himself and the future he wanted. 

Julia began, "Surely there's a way—"

"No, Julia. There isn't."

He did not miss the crestfallen look on her face and at the sight of it that old heavy feeling suddenly suffused his limbs. He could not do right by Eliot and he could not do right by Julia, could not even muster the strength to soothe her worried brow despite being the cause himself of her concern. Still he could manage a smile, he thought. He could do— something, to make himself less of a burden.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I truly do not know what to do."

"Well, for now, let's celebrate. We can sort out the details later." With that she smiled back and refilled their glasses once again.

For the rest of the night Quentin kept his best face on as they drank and laughed and even, most memorably, disregarded their shoes and danced barefoot across the kitchen. Still there was no denying the doubt that had settled into him, that gnawing thing that grew in the darkest corners of his mind.

He awoke the next morning in the fog of wine and poor sleep. Haplessly he stumbled through his daily chores. Throughout the day a familiar cloud seemed to grow over him and though he knew it intimately, like the smell of rain over the late summer orchard, he felt helpless to stop it. And so it washed over him, slowly at first, until by that evening he was drowning. 

Perhaps it was simply better for him to disappear, he thought, over and over. It should be easy, should it not, to remove himself from the narrative all together? He was never meant to be in it in the first place— had he simply gone down to the barn a few hours later that first morning, he would never have had the occasion to loose a spare plum at Eliot's princely head. He could have missed the market that day, or turned away when he saw the High King and Queen approaching the river, and he certainly could have avoided encouraging Eliot further with solitary companionship. It was his choice, was it not, to fall into bed with the man.

A map of choices stretched out behind him, leading step by step from a perfectly contented, ordinary life to a guarantee of heartbreak. Quentin's innumerable failures weighed on him, so clearly marked, making one simple fact plain as day: Eliot would be better served without Quentin's blundering selfishness making a mess of his life. 

When a message arrived from the High King, invitations for the entire family to attend a masked ball in honor of Eliot's impending marriage in four days' time, as well as a special note intended only for Quentin, he passed along only three of the invitations. His own invitation and the note, detailing a set of ruins in the Wormwood and requesting that he meet Eliot there in two days, he tucked into the very back of the last of his Fillory books. There it would stay, he vowed, out of sight and mind as he rarely sought to reach the end of the things which he so loved.

And with that, Quentin crawled into his bed by the fire, prepared to dream of a rendezvous he would never see.


	6. Chapter 6

"You're quite sure?" Margo asked one bright morning. She sat across from him at breakfast, spooning the golden yolk from an egg with some vigor.

"I'm sure about what?" Eliot said. Before him lay his work for the day, declarations to be signed and orders to be made. He marked his signature quickly across a land transfer and passed it to Margo, who accepted it with more glee than Eliot thought was strictly due something so dull.

"About the boy," she said, scrawling across the page before setting it aside. "Quentin."

"Well I've already sent him a message asking him to meet me at the ruins, so I'd say so."

"The _ruins?_ " Margo gasped, waving her spoon in mock astonishment. "Honestly, Eliot."

"What can I say, you know I've always had a flare for the dramatic. Besides, I think it's quite romantic. He _loves_ history, especially the history of Fillory. What better place to make a proper proposal? You know they say King Eldritch proposed to his husband there as well."

"King _Eldritch_ , Eliot? You made that up."

"I did! But you see my point."

"I absolutely do not, but I'll take your word for it. As long as you're sure."

Eliot looked up at her and observed the anxious tilt of her mouth. And yet above it her eyes were curious and, if Eliot was not mistaken— and he was not, they had been through too much together— kind. Brown lightened to amber by her own inner warmth as much as the suns above.

"Bambi," he said seriously. "I have truly, _truly_ never been so sure of anything in my life."

She nodded and reached across the table to take his hand. "And you know that I support you. It's only that I worry. You know you rushed into things with Michael—"

"Oh, please," he said with a roll of his eyes. "As if Quentin could be anything like that."

"I believe you. I just want you to be sure. You deserve to be happy."

"I believe I will be. In fact, I am. I can't remember the last time I was this happy."

"Well, that I believe," Margo said, the barest hint of a tease in her voice. "It's not a particularly high bar to clear, darling."

Which, though true, perhaps did not need to be stated so nakedly. “You're as cruel as you are beautiful," he sighed, reaching out for her hand. She gave it, a shrewd look on her face, and he raised it to his mouth to brush a kiss against her knuckles. The sweet scent of juniper and honeysuckle clung to her skin, and he sighed, soothed as ever by her presence. "Truly, Bambi— I thought this marriage a compromise. Something middle ground where I might meet someone I could at least muster a prolonged physical attraction to, who would be an ally or at best perhaps a friend. I never set out asking for _love—"_

"Oh, it's _love_ , is it?" Margo asks, meticulously maintained eyebrow arching in a show of teasing skepticism. 

"Well, perhaps not _yet_ —" It had, of course, been less than two weeks, but it was impossible for Eliot to deny that he felt drawn to the boy, that they shared a mutual affection and respect that could grow _into_ love, if nurtured. And for once in his life, Eliot was in a nurturing mood. "But I believe it's a very real possibility."

"Well, then there's that done and dusted," Margo sighed, an exaggerated thing clearly teasing him. Her fingers tightened in his hand in an affectionate squeeze. But her expression was serious when she spoke again. "It's only— we know so little about him, El."

"I've seen him. I _have_. And I know there's not a bad bone in his body. I know he has his sharper edges— he nearly beheaded me, after all— but I know this is right. He's of a gentle nature. And when I'm around him I feel like myself. Truly myself. Not a king or a magician but— just a man."

She studied him a moment longer and he forced himself to meet her imploring gaze. Finally she said, "If you're sure."

"I am," he promised. 

"All right," she said, delicately dipping her toast into what remained of her egg, "then I have your formal permission to give you hell about him?" 

"Absolutely." Eliot laughed and took a bite of his toast. The jam in its crevices tasted sweeter than it had moments ago and his face almost ached with his smile.

"I'm serious, Eliot. I will never stop, not even once you're married. I will lurk around every corner to make foul gestures and impolite faces. You'll want a divorce within the year just to be rid of me."

"God, we really need to find you your own farm boy. Or girl. Whatever you're in the mood for."

"One of each, perhaps, for putting up with your nonsense."

"As befits you, my Queen," Eliot murmured, feeling a deep abiding fondness for her. Then a wicked thought crossed his mind, and he grinned mischievously. "Can you believe that the Lorian prince thought you were a virgin? If only he could see you now, demanding boys and girls alike."

"We agreed never to speak of that again," Margo hissed icily, her nails digging sharply into his palm. "That is, presuming that your new husband would like your balls _attached_ to your body instead of being worn by me as earrings."

"I dare say he would, yes," Eliot laughed, holding up his free hand in surrender. But the word _husband_ stuck in his mind, spinning him back towards an anxiety that has plagued him for the last twelve hours. "You do think he'll come, don't you?"

"Oh for the love of— _yes,_ numbnuts, of course he'll come."

"Then why hasn't he written back—"

"Perhaps he was unable to secure a messenger, or he was out somewhere in that damned extensive orchard when the note had arrived and did not receive it until later than would be considered proper to send a reply. Or any of the other countless possible reasons you've enumerated to me over the last day." Eliot opened his mouth to protest, and Margo's nails cut into his palm again. "Sweetness, you know I love you when I say this— if you don't stop walking in the same circles, I'm gonna break your walkers, _capisce_?"

"Yes, ma'am," Eliot agreed, with an overly forlorn sigh. 

Still, Margo deigned to lean down and kiss his cheek as she rose from breakfast, waving towards the stack of ordinances in front of those. "Have someone bring those up to my study and you head down to the ruins. You're liable to accidentally sign away your first child when you're like this."

"That would be a hard bargain to collect on," Eliot pointed out, but he rose nevertheless. Perhaps it would do him some good to clear his head before he sees Quentin again. "You're too good to me, Bambi."

"You better remember that," she threatened, and stole the remainder of his toast.

Eliot had asked Quentin to meet him at the Wormwoods some two days hence. However nothing seemed to make the time go by faster. Try as he might to distract himself, nothing seemed to do the job— not the daily arguments of the royal council, not the delight he usually took in the simple act of darning his own socks— not even his much treasured morning walks around the rose garden seemed able to tear his mind away from Quentin.

And how could any of it, really? When Quentin had kissed him so eagerly, when he had gone pliant in Eliot's arms, when he had moaned so sweetly when Eliot had touched him— Eliot had never experienced such ease with another person. Such comfort.

At last the time came for Eliot to make his way to the ruin. He spent all day waiting.

It felt foolish after the fact, but he'd been so sure Quentin would arrive. Even when his message went without answer, Eliot had held true to his faith, so sure was he that their moment of connection had meant as much to Quentin as it had to him. 

The ruins in the Wormwoods were one of Eliot's favorite places in all of Fillory. Old walls grown over with moss, with many young trees sprouting inside the rooms, there was a sense of wildness, of unbridled possibility, of chaos and order ever in balance. It was also one of the few places in all of Fillory that no one, not a single human or talking animal soul, could ask anything of him. Here he was, as he'd said to Margo before, not a king, not a magician— just a vulnerable man. It was how he'd wanted Quentin to find him, how he'd wanted to appear when he set out upon this most daring of proposals: not as a king to a subject, not as a master magician to a student, but as peers. One man to another, of equal station. 

He'd brought Quentin's books with him, the ones from the library which had been left in the carriage after their axle broke. He thought to spend some of the time waiting for Quentin to read them, but as the hours drew on, he found himself to be increasingly restless. Eliot had never been much of a reader— that was always Margo's purview. Oh, he'd managed well enough in school to get through what he needed, but he'd always considered himself a physical being. Sitting scrunched up all day turning pages was never going to be his idea of fun.

So he paced, treading the length of the ruin as he generated excuse after excuse for Quentin's tardiness. He had not included a time on the missive, assuming that Quentin would want to see him as soon as possible, but that was foolish, perhaps. After all, the boy had duties on his farm, by all accounts a rigorous family which kept him busy. So he had simply been unable to slip away until his chores were done, perfectly understandable, yes. And braving the road alone, well, it was a much shorter journey from Whitespire than it was from the southern orchard, Eliot should have accounted for some travel time. 

Surely Quentin wanted to see Eliot as much as Eliot longed for him.

He waited until sundown, clinging to the very desperate and mountingly unlikely hope that Quentin would manifest out of the darkness. But braving the roads alone at night would be madness, even for Eliot, even on the King's Road. He waited until the last possible moment, because leaving meant admitting defeat. Leaving meant leaving his hope, his heart, his chance at good and happy life behind. He was loath to do it. For a brief moment of insanity he contemplated simply staying here in the ruin, simply lying down amongst the vegetation and allowing Fillory to consume him. Would they tell stories of him, the High King who became one with the trees waiting for his love to return?

But such fancies would not serve him well, not when he had responsibilities, people counting on him. Margo would never let him fade away— she'd already proven that, uprooted their lives once, and he did not doubt that she would do it again. Indeed, he had no need of a lover when he had his High Queen at his side. In the end it was the promise of Margo that drove him home, up the long and winding road to Whitespire. Night was well and truly settled by the time Eliot's carriage pulled through the castle gates, and the halls remained quiet as he walked up towards their living quarters, fully intending to walk right through to Margo's chambers.

And yet at the last moment he pivoted, turning into his own with a sharp heel. Scraps of paper scattered the desk he rarely used, it was easy enough to locate one. Perhaps he had not left all his hope in the ruins, but all that he had left bled out onto the page:

_Quentin,_

_I fear that this message may find you in ill-health. I confess the day has presented me with much opportunity to presume the worst, and yet I can not bring myself to believe that you would withhold your company from me willingingly. Thus I implore you, what help can I offer you, my darling? Speak only what you need and it is yours. I hold my breath until I can see you again._

_Yours,_

_Eliot_

The sealing-wax burned his fingers, and yet Eliot could hardly feel it, so in haste was he to find the nearest underling at hand and task them with finding a messenger. Only after the letter was in the hands, or rather paws, of a fox who promised to deliver it by dawn, did Eliot allow himself the luxury of catching his breath. He stumbled back to his room in a daze, folding down to sit on the floor in a jumble. It wasn't until a soft knock on the door shook him out of it that he was even aware of the fact that he was still wearing his riding boots.

"Yes, come in," he called out in a croaky voice, half expecting it to be Margo who opened the door.

It was not, it was in fact Rafe of all people, and bearing a tray of food and a jug of something no less. "Forgive me, your majesty, but— Her Slowness observed your late return to the castle and suggested that perhaps you could do with some sustenance."

It was only then that Eliot became aware of the twisting discomfort in his stomach which surely couldn't be attributed to hunger alone. "Insightful as ever, that sloth."

"Indeed, Your Majesty."

Rafe angled the tray into the room, setting it hastily on the table by the fire. Eliot was admittedly more interested in the contents of the jug than the selection of cured meats and fruit and cheese on offer, but perhaps tonight was not the night to be drinking alone in his chambers. 

"Will you join me?" The offer escaped him before he'd even considered it, but he found he didn't regret it. He'd always liked Rafe best of their courtly-hangers on, though he had never quite known what to make of Abigail, who seemed to be at once both the most trustworthy and the most duplicitous of their advisors. Rafe seemed startled by the question, looking hesitantly down to the food. Eliot sighed, rubbing his temple. "Look, I spent the entire day sitting alone keeping my own counsel, I'm not overly eager to extend the exercise any further."

This must have been a satisfactory explanation, because Rafe moved over to perch delicately on one of the poofy stools near the tray-baring table. Eliot took the other, a rather awkward proposition involving the folding of his limbs, but it brought him close enough to pour two cups from the jug. The scent of blackberry wine wafted up from it, and Eliot spared a moment to be grateful that at least it wasn't carrot. 

"I take it your rendezvous did not go as planned," Rafe hazarded as Eliot passed him a cup of wine.

"No, it did not," Eliot agreed, raising the glass in salute and then draining it in a single swallow. He barely felt the burn at all as he reached for the jug to pour himself some more. "I found myself a lonely fool waiting in an empty wreck, trying not to make a metaphor of it."

"I see," Rafe said, sipping his own glass delicately. He spared Eliot the indignity of asking for a refill.

"I feel so— so stupid, frankly. I should've known he wouldn't come."

"Why should Your Majesty have known that? From what High Queen Margo has shared with Abigail, I should have thought your...paramour was certain to appear."

Eliot let out a baleful laugh. "Margo's been gossiping about me with a sloth. Of course."

"Her Slowness is an excellent confidante," Rafe said, looking at his knees. He took another sip of wine before he continued, "And has much wisdom to share."

Levelly, Eliot observed Rafe. He was certainly earnest in his compliments, as ever he had been; not an ounce of irony could Eliot detect. His eyes were wide, too, as if he feared Eliot's reproach. Though he had known of Rafe's— affections for as long as he had been at Whitespite, Rafe had never seen fit to make them explicit.

"You admire her greatly," Eliot said at last.

"I do."

"Is that all it is? Admiration?"

Whatever Eliot expected, it was not for Rafe to laugh. And laugh, and laugh, and finish his wine and pour himself another glass before he topped off Eliot's. "I think you know the answer to that, Majesty."

"Shall we trade secrets?" he asked, tipping his glass in thanks. "There's an old saying on Earth. 'I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.'"

Rafe giggled a little into his cups, always less scandalized by Eliot than his Pickwick brethren. Perhaps it was the sloth— by all accounts she had a _filthy_ mouth. "I would be honored to keep your secrets, sire."

"Even from the sloth?" Eliot asked, just to watch Rafe hesitate, mouth open like a fish out of water. But he's no desire to be cruel tonight, waving his hand immediately. "Excuse me, _Abigail_. Don't worry, Rafe, I have no illusions where your loyalties lie."

He had the good form to look embarrassed anyway, but he was as ever painfully earnest when he spoke again. "Abigail feels you are good for Fillory, Sire, and I am inclined to agree. She suggested perhaps having the knife maker's daughter killed to free you from your bond—"

"What? No! That's _absolute_ madness."

"Yes, I persuaded her that you would find a better solution," Rafe assured him, a little twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"I thought I had," Eliot admitted, looking down into his cup. "But it may be time to admit defeat on that front."

A long moment of silence passed, only the sound the crackling fire filling the air and the space between them. Eliot swirled his cup, watching the wine cling to the sides and slide back down into a puddle at the bottom.

With his trademark gentleness, Rafe said, "Are you quite sure he doesn't love you, then?"

Eliot chewed his lip. Recalling the way that Quentin had looked at him in the library, around the fire— in the tent where they had done things that even Eliot would go so far to describe as _making love_ — it didn't seem then, that Quentin hadn't loved him. On that day it had not seemed that Quentin wanted anything less than Eliot. And yet here he was, halfway to drunk on the floor of his chambers with a councilman, his throat tight with the strength of his emotions.

"You know," Eliot said. "I'm not sure at all." He felt tears behind his eyes, then, his throat constricting even more tightly. He knocked back the rest of his wine and held out his goblet.

"So there's hope, then?"

Eliot let out a strangled laugh. "Is there for you?"

"With you and High Queen Margo leading us?" Rafe said, with a kind of honest serenity. "Yes, Majesty. For the first time in a long time, I think there is."

More credit could be given to Margo on that front than Eliot; her girlhood fascination with the talking animals had matured into thoughtfulness and deliberate consideration that Eliot still struggled to match. Ruling came easily to Margo in a way it never seemed to come to Eliot. Perhaps he was High King by birth, but she was the one born to rule. If they had a chance, a real chance, to leave this world better than they found it, then it was due to Margo.

"I think he would have made me a better king," Eliot sighed, reaching out for some cheese. It's hard and sharp and salty on his tongue, somehow an appropriate accompaniment to the thought. The crystals roll under his teeth, "In truth, I think he already has, made me braver and more aware of what Fillory needs. He would have been— good for Fillory." 

"You speak as though you've given up—"

"I'm trying to be practical," Eliot cut him off, swallowing against a wave of doubt he felt even now. For where did practicality end and the desire to run from potential hurt begin? "Perhaps he was held up at home, perhaps tragedy struck him on the road, perhaps my invitation never reached him at all. The simple fact remains that in three days' time, I must marry. Perhaps Quentin will simply arrive at the ball in three days and solve all my problems, but in the event that he does not... I will do what I must. Fillory is my home."

"That," Rafe said simply, raising his glass, "is why you are a good king."


	7. Chapter 7

It had been three days since Quentin had left his bed. Even longer since he had eaten. Though he knew Marina and his stepmother would find him soon and demand he return to his daily labor, he could not find it in himself to care. He deserved to be there, he thought, among the ashes and the dirt. Surely nothing else befitted a wretch such as him.

To think that he had ever dreamed of a life with Eliot seemed so foolish. And indeed he was a fool, to think that he might ever find a way out of his station, that he was anything but a miserable orphan with only books to keep him company.

As he lay there on the cold flagstone he thought of his father, the man who had hoped for so much for Quentin's future. Who had played knights and bandits alongside him when he was small; who had bought him books and taught him to read and taught him to dream and never instilled any doubt of his potential. He could not help but wonder what his father might think of him now, broken as he was. A boy who had never grown out of his childhood madness.

The thought made his chest seize with grief and he pushed his face into his old and flattened pillow. Of course he could never deserve Eliot. Of course he never _had_ deserved him. He was nothing but a sack of bones, a sad thing held together by the thinnest of threads.

That was where he was when Julia knocked on the door, the gentle rap of her knuckles ever familiar even in his current state.

"Q?" she called. Quiet, easy. Truly no one else knew Quentin as well as she.

"Yes," he said, his voice cracking with disuse. And again, more loudly, "Come in."

"Oh, Quentin," Julia said, immediately crouching beside him. "Is it— are you all right?"

He gestured futilely at his swollen face and unwashed hair. He could not find the words, not even the single utterance of _No_ or _Yes._

"Is there anything I can do?"

Quentin only shrugged. He waited for her insistence, her usual congenial bullying. Instead she only waited a moment, and then sighed. She ran her fingers through his hair and he cringed to know the grime she felt but was grateful nevertheless. No one had touched him since his night with Eliot.

"I'll be back in a while, okay?" 

Julia placed a gentle kiss to his temple and with that, she was gone. He closed his eyes and listened to sounds of her skirts shifting as she climbed the stairs. Even when she was gone he did not open his eyes. Instead he focused on the cool stone against his face, the way the hard surface bit into his hip. He listened to his own breathing, the shallowness of it. He wondered if he had ever breathed deeply enough. If the air of New Jersey had been as thin as the air of Fillory now felt, or if had been even thinner. If maybe that had been part of the enormous relief he'd felt when he'd stumbled through that clock and into this land and his life had changed forever— if maybe upon coming here he had finally learned to breathe.

But it didn't matter. Because it didn't feel that way now. He felt like he was suffocating, his chest tight with something like grief or regret or something worse, perhaps: the sense that he had never been worth Eliot's time, would never be with anyone's time. It was not a sense but something he knew, deep down in his bones. Cold and rushing in his marrow.

Eventually he fell asleep. For how long he didn't know but it must have been some time, because when he opened his eyes it was dark.

Quentin heard Julia's voice first, familiar in its sure tones, and then another, equally sure and yet somehow in possession of even greater authority. Briefly he feared it was Marina, come to kick him while he was down, as she had been wont to do so often in the past. Fueled by this fear and preparing for the worst, he opened his eyes. 

Of all the things Quentin might be given to expect, on the day of the ball to celebrate the announcement of the High King's marriage, the High Queen storming her way into Quentin's little hovel room was not one of them. Her voice preceded her, carrying into the room with a ring of: "He better see me, I'm not entirely convinced I shouldn't hang him up by his balls in the dungeons. Did you know we have dungeons? They're great, I should use them more."

A burst of adrenaline spiked through the fog hanging in Quentin's brain, enough at least to prompt him to sit up and look around. He wore the same tunic and breeches he had for days, and it was painfully likely his entire face was smeared with soot and ash from the fire. A more sorry sight he'd never made, and yet the idea of Margo finding him like this paled in comparison to the shame of what she surely knew he'd done to her king. He shrunk back into the corner of the room as the High Queen sailed toward him in a flurry of silk and sequin. 

"He might be asleep," came Julia's voice from somewhere behind the door. 

"What—" Quentin started, then focused on Julia because she was easier to take in than the tornado of color and rage that was High Queen Margo. "Aren't you— going to the ball with your sister?"

"I wasn't going to just _leave you here_ ," Julia sighed in clear exasperation, tossing her hands up as if to indicate Quentin's general idiocy in a movement he was all too familiar with. "I went to the palace to try to speak to the High King—"

" _What_?" Quentin hissed in horror. He could practically feel the color draining from his face as his stomach bottomed out.

"It wasn't the brightest idea," Margo agreed dryly, looking him over. He shrunk a little under her gaze, drawing his knees up to his chest. "Luckily I intercepted your friend and she pleaded your case. You broke a lot of things that didn't need to get broken with your little disappearing act, you know that? I assume he at least _told you_ why he needs to get married?"

"Yes," Quentin whispered, at the same time Julia said, "It's complicated—"

"Is the complication that he's an idiot?" Margo asked sharply, arms folded over her chest. "Eliot was floating on air waiting to propose to you properly and now you've left him stuck with the last resort. All the trouble he went through to _not_ marry that girl, I swear, _I'd_ marry her if it would do any good, but it won't. Do you _want_ to marry him?"

"Of course he does," Julia cut in, flapping her hand in Quentin's face when he opened his mouth to speak. "He's been pining for _days_. We can still make this work, I think some of my father's old clothes for court are still stored in my mother's room. The fashions will be outdated but I'm sure we can make it work."

"Tailoring spells are easy," Margo offered with some reluctance. "If you're going to turn up to a ball and become the consort of the High King, you can't go in _outdated clothes_. Eliot deserves better than that."

Overwhelmed, Quentin sobbed, "I can't!" he cried, loud enough to cut through Julia and Margo's excited chatter. "Majesty, as much as it pains me to say it, I cannot marry Eliot— the king."

"Why the great hairy goat-sack not?"

"Because—" Quentin swallowed, eyes flicking over to Julia. Her smile was perhaps less encouraging than she'd intended, but he drew strength from it nonetheless. He may never have Eliot but he would always have this, his little bed by the fire and his books and Julia meddling in his business. "I lied. To him, I mean. Or well— I let him think that... that I could fulfill his marriage pact, but I can't. Margo, I'm not Fillory-born. I was born on Earth. I came to Fillory when I was a child after my father died. He doesn't know, my lady, he can't know. Best he forget me and move on—"

"Horse shit," Margo cut in, leaving Quentin blinking up at her. She was dimly lit by the dying fire, all angles and shadows, and surely that was the only reason she seemed larger than life, hugely terrifying in her power and certainty. "Eliot needs a partner who can help him make sense of this damned place, and he needs to be loved. Can you do those things?"

"I— I _want_ to, so badly, but—"

"No 'but', dear. This is a yes or no kind of situation."

Quentin swallowed. "Yes. I think so."

"I would do a lot for Eliot, Quentin. I've _done_ a lot for Eliot. I came to this ass-backwards planet to get him out of a slump that almost killed him. I refuse to stand by and watch him consign his life to misery if he has another option."

"But the deal—"

"Fuck the deal. No, I'm sorry to offend your delicate sensibilities, but we can find some way out of this together if it comes down to it, but the fact of the matter is that you've kept secrets from Eliot, and he needs to know. He _deserves_ to know. You need to tell him the truth, and soon, before he marries someone he can never love." Her hands went to her hips, and Quentin was viciously reminded of her full title: High Queen Margo The Destroyer. "Eliot has been lied to and hurt by men who purport to love him before, and that has done more damage to him than the befucked gods ever could. He deserves to know the _truth,_ all of it, because right now he's not working with all the facts. And trust me, Quentin, the fact that you love him matters more in this situation than where you were born."

"A bird may love a fish," Quentin sighed, exhausted, passing his hand over his eyes, "but where would they live?"

Margo crouched down in front of him, balanced incredibly precisely on her towering heels. With more kindness that Quentin would ever think to expect from her, she reached out and caught a lock of his stiff hair, tucking it behind his ear. It was a familiar gesture, one he'd received from Eliot many times, and suddenly his heart ached to think of that familiarity, how he might grow into it. How well he might know Margo, if given half the chance. "Then we shall have to build you wings."

__

Thanks to Margo's magic and Julia's quick thinking, they arrived only a little late to the ball. Late enough that everything was in full swing, but early enough to be let in the gate, Quentin stood clutching his crumpled up invitation. _By order of High King Eliot and High Queen Margo_ , it said in fancy looping script, _let the bearer of this invitation enter Castle Whitespire so that they may share in our joy this happy day_. The guard barely glanced at it before waving him through, and yet Quentin still clutched it like a life-line, lest he be called upon to prove to anyone he belonged. 

Following the sound of music and joy and revelry, Quentin traced through unfamiliar halls out onto an open sprawling courtyard. There all the notable names of Fillory gathered, human and animal alike, all in their finest clothes and costumes. Never in his life had Quentin felt less like he belonged in a crowd, and yet Julia and Margo had done their work well. He not only looked like he belonged in the crowd but he was sure he stood out in the fitted gold jacket with bespelled gold thread embroidery that seemed to flow like liquid metal. His hair was smoothed and fitted with a golden chain, a repurposed necklace of Julia's which Margo promised made him look kingly. And last, her crowning touch, a set of gossamer wings stretching out behind him, delicate and translucent in the starlight.

"Breathe," he whispered to himself. "Just breathe."

With one last fortifying breath, he stepped into the fray. All around him were the nobles of every species, adorned in all their various finery. There were tables upon tables of sumptuous food, meats and fruits alike— one of which, Quentin noted, seemed to be stocked with various tarts and pies surrounded by what looked to be his own orchard's special varieties of plums and peaches. He smiled at the same time the picture made his heart ache a little. That Eliot had still thought of him even when he thought himself rejected was more than Quentin could bear.

He looked around nervously, searching for Marina or her mother or worse. When after a moment passed without sign of them, he finally allowed himself to exhale, walking among the guests and the tables, admiring the flowers and the lights that flickered in changing colors and enchanting patterns. It was all as entrancing to him as any book of Fillory he had ever read and yet even more so, for to see it in _person_ , to walk to feast halls of Whitespire— it was more than he had ever imagined.

His reverie was broken by a touch to his shoulder and he turned. When he saw the tall figure he recognized him instantly, for despite his green and golden mask with its exaggerated brow and enormous plumes, the curls atop Eliot's head were obvious to anyone who knew him— much less to Quentin, who had felt those soft tendrils between his own fingers.

"I confess I thought you weren't going to come," Eliot breathed, looking down with those desperate hazel eyes that Quentin had seen every time he closed his own, made all the more striking by their green and gold frame. "Did you not receive my messages?"

"I did," Quentin started, heart aching. "I _am_ sorry if I caused you any pain. But there's something I must tell you before another word is spoken."

"You don't wish to be rid of me then," Eliot asked in a joking tone, but it was but a thin veneer over a sea of heart-ache. 

"I do not," Quentin promised, heart bubbling with too many feelings he could not contain. Just being this close to Eliot again felt like some great pain he'd carried for so long he was unaware of it had suddenly eased. "But I must speak with you."

"Whatever it is, it can wait," Eliot promised, giddy, his hand closing on Quentin's wrist. Before Quentin could protest, Eliot was dragging him through the crowd and across the courtyard. "I almost just made the worst decision of my life."

"No, please, I just— I need to tell you something. It's important."

"Whatever it is, my answer is yes!" Eliot called back, dragging Quentin up towards a dias set in the center of the room. On it lounged High Queen Margo in all her glory, somehow seeming as though she had never been absent. She was dressed stunningly in black and gold, wearing a decorative eye-patch in place of a mask, a black corset and wrapping skirt offset by gold belt and a heavy gold necklace that fit her throat like a collar. Her crown seemed to grow out of her hair like so many golden veins, and the gaze she turned upon Quentin did not in any way indicate that she'd seen him in the last several days, nevermind dressed him to complement her. 

Quentin grimaced as Eliot dragged him up the stairs, unable to stop his feet even as his heart felt heavy in his chest.

"Good evening," Eliot cried, heralded briefly by the sounding of several horns as he held up his glass, "thank you all for coming! Lords, ladies, sloths and Grizzlies, those beyond the binary, those beyond the… bear…nary," he said, sounding as distracted as he was pleased with himself. "Queen Margo and I are all too pleased to welcome you to Whitespire. We trust that you are enjoying yourselves, and that you have treated yourself to the many fruits of Fillory, as well as our finest wines." Here he spared a moment to wink— of all things, to _wink_ at Quentin.

"As some of you may know, but as many of you may not, it was always intended that I marry. And not just anyone, mind you, but as a Child of Earth, I must marry a Fillorian, that they might teach me the history and the ways of this land; that they might guide me. That they might," Eliot sighed then, smiling as he looked down at Quentin, who could not stop himself from smiling back. "That they might ensure my ties to Fillory. And I believe I have found the person that might do all of these things. Who I love."

The crowd murmured and gasped. Quentin looked at the sea of faces, catching sight of Margo and Julia pushing their way into the hall. Margo's face clouded as she shouldered her way through the crowd. Quentin felt a pang of relief; surely Margo would know what to do. He squeezed Eliot's hand, hoping to seize his attention and in doing so an opportunity to tell the truth; that he might save Eliot from the humiliation that would surely follow what he was about to say.

"Eliot, what are you doing?" Margo demanded, stepping up onto the stage, radiant and deadly in her black and gold."

But Eliot only held his hand more tightly. "Don't fret, dearest, for our struggles are at an end. Lord Ember decreed that I should marry a true-born Fillorian. And after much searching and careful consideration, I have chosen this man." With that, he tugged Quentin up onto the dais, displaying him for all of the kingdom to see.

"Please, Your Majesty," Quentin whispered, tucking his hair behind his ear. "Please— I must—"

"That man!" came a familiar voice from the crowd. "He is not who you think he is."

Eliot laughed and pulled Quentin closer to him. Of all things in that moment Quentin wished he felt as safe as he had that night they had spent together, but instead he searched the crowd with fear. He imagined he saw a thousand faces or more, though surely it could not be that many, human and animal alike. Next to them on the dias, Margo cursed under her breath, turning towards Eliot with some urgency. 

"Eliot, stop this now," she warned. Though Quentin's heart stuttered at the acidity of her tone, Eliot paid her no mind.

"Your Highness!" the voice called out again. Too late Quentin recognized it, for before he grasped his final chance at salvation he saw Marina's brilliant chestnut hair shining like snake skin as she moved through the crowd. She approached the dias on firm feet and Quentin would know the cruelty in her eyes anywhere, no matter the mask she wore.

"Pardon?" Eliot said with only mild curiosity.

"This man is a liar. He is not who he has made himself out to be. He is not a true-born Fillorian."

At that, Eliot clenched his jaw. Quentin's stomach dropped, an icy numbness spreading across his skin. No, not like this— where was Julia? She'd promised to rein Marina in until Quentin could talk to Eliot. He looked up to Eliot, frozen in fear, unable to move, speak in his own defense or respond to Marina's claim. Whatever Eliot saw written on his face, he took it as denial. Once again Eliot squeezed his hand, giving him a reassuring nod before he turned his icy gaze on Maina. "You, madam, are on dangerous ground."

"It is my duty, Your Highness, to expose him. Truly, ask him. If he loves Your Highness as he claims surely he will not lie."

Eliot turned to Quentin then, half a smile on his lips, and Quentin knew that he expected him to simply wave away her words. That he thought it would be so simple. For the briefest moment, Quentin imagined spinning out the lie, letting it rest. He could pretend, perhaps; it would be a matter of Quentin's word against Marina and her mother's, did it matter in the end? But Margo's words came back to him, about Eliot having been lied to and hurt by those who should have loved him all his life, and Quentin was powerless to lie in the face of the truth. Despite the cost, Eliot deserved to hear the truth from him. He had hoped Eliot might hear it from him first, and in private, but if this was the only opportunity Quentin was going to get, he needed to be brave. And so he pressed a final kiss to Eliot's hand before he released it, knowing he would never touch him again.

"I was born on Earth."

Eliot scoffed. "Surely not. You know Fillory so well! You know every story, every myth, every path and every field. You cannot possibly be of Earth." His eyes were imploring as he spoke.

Quentin shook his head, fighting to swallow down tears. His voice nearly trembled as he spoke. "I am sorry, sire. I came here as a young boy and even before that my— my father used to read me stories of Fillory. I— I still have those books to this day, you _know_ — I have always borne in my heart a deep love for this land, I love it as my home, as much as those who were born here ever could. But what she says is true. I am not a son of Fillory."

At that, Eliot took a step away, putting such distance between them such that Quentin could not reach him no matter how hard he tried. "It can't be true. You can't, not after— we— no," he said, and Quentin's heart ached at the way his voice broke.

"Eliot, please, I— I implore you. I never meant to lie, I didn't."

"How dare you address me so informally, sir," Eliot snapped. "I am the High King of Fillory. And _you_ — you are nothing more than an orphan of Earth." He covered his eyes with a velvet-gloved hand. "Throw them out. All of them," he said, resigned as he gestured toward Quentin and Marina and somewhere beyond them, Julia and anyone else who might be so unlucky as to be mistaken as one of their party.

"I'm sorry," Quentin said even as he knew Eliot would not hear him. He did not even dare to turn to Margo or to beg her reprieve. Certainly, he thought, they had all been humiliated enough.

No, instead he turned and ran before the guards could even get a hold of them, not suffering to be dragged out to a carriage where Marina could gloat her victory. Thoughtlessly, he dashed out into the night, half expecting rain to take the sky for how miserable he felt. But no, there would be no rain scheduled for the night of the ball, nothing to cool the flush of hurt on his cheeks. He caught his foot on the path by the edge of the castle and went sprawling in the dirt, the impact knocking a sob loose from his chest. He scrambled up and kept running, not even bothering to turn back when one of his feet hit the ground softened only by a thin sock. One of the golden shoes heeled with glass which Margo had so expertly crafted for him lay left behind near the castle gates, and yet he could not stop long enough to go back for it. It did not matter, anyway.

He did not allow himself to cry until he was alone again by the hearth. 


	8. Chapter 8

"You staked our crowns and our lives on the _chance_ of finding this," Margo hissed, stabbing her finger into his chest. "And now that you've found it you won't even _fight for it?_ "

"Do you think gods remake their bargains a second time?" Eliot asked sharply, knocking her hand away. "I'm doing this _to protect_ our lives and our crowns."

"You're doing it because you're afraid!" Her voice was cutting, and Eliot turned away from her, so as to avoid letting her see his face, how deeply her words cut. "And when you're afraid you run away. I know _why_ , Eliot, I know that's kept you alive, but— he's not _Michael_."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Eliot bit out, heart racing in his chest. Staring out the window, Eliot could not help but turn his gaze southwards, toward the treetops of the orchard. He could hear Margo moving behind him, so it wasn't a surprise when her arms came up to loop around his waist, small hands clasping in front of his belly. Her head pressed against his spine between his shoulder blades, and he could almost lean back into her, trust her with his weight. Margo had carried him for years, really. Couldn't he make this sacrifice, so that she might have the life she deserved?

"Yeah, baby, I do." Her voice was kind, kinder really than she had any right to be. Twisting in her arms, he turned so he could hold her, gather her silky sweet-smelling hair in one hand and tuck her under his chin. He thought only briefly of how well Quentin had fit there, as well, before banishing the thought from his mind. "He's your match, Eliot."

"He lied to me."

"He came here tonight to tell you the truth," Margo said sharply, drawing back to look up at him. "You have no idea what that cost him, and you fed him to the wolves. Hopefully not literally, but there was more than one in attendance."

"I will not risk our crowns for a _fairy tale's chance_ , Margo."

She sighed, shaking her head as she stepped away from him. "He would risk all that and more for you. He's not _Michael_ , Eliot. If you could have seen him when I went and fished him out of that wretched kitchen— No one in the world could deserve you, but I believe he loves you enough to work at it." She turned, placing something on the table by the fire with a gentle clink. He watched her leave the room before turning his attention to it. It was a simple shoe of golden fabric, shining in the firelight. But more remarkable, the sole and heel of the shoe seemed to be made out of glass, transparent and refracting the light.

Briefly, he reached toward her as if to call her back, but immediately knew it was too late. He watched her skirts shine in the low light as she went and sighed. They would sweeten anything sour between them eventually, he knew, but it did not lessen the hurt of her words; it did not lessen the slight burning feeling beneath his breastbone. He took a steadying breath and stepped toward the hearth.

The firelight flickered across the shoe, its golden threads cast even warmer in the soft glow. It was well-made, he thought, elegant in its embroidery. Though Margo's magic did not naturally lend her to such detail, he knew her well enough to spot her trademarks: each edge carefully sewn in golden thread, every stitch perfectly spaced so as to prevent fraying. If he looked closely, he could see the rams' horns sewn in each instep, the rushing waters over behind the heel. He could see, too, the delicate clockwork embroidered across the toe, how its cogs and weights seemed to settle so naturally into the edges of the fabric before it settled into the sole. 

He had never loved Fillory as well as she had. It had— truthfully, it had pained him since they'd first arrived here together. Not just the slight jealousy, but the fact that despite her love Fillory had _chosen_ him. It didn't seem fair, indeed he knew it was not, that he held in his hands the power to assure their reign or destroy it. The choice seemed obvious, and yet here she was, telling him to make another. There was a bitter unfairness to it, because Eliot believed, truly, in his heart of hearts, that Quentin would have been good for Fillory. Turning away from him did not feel like acting in Fillory's best interest, as wildly selfish an option as it seemed. 

Pouring himself a glass of wine, he allowed himself the indulgence of collapsing dramatically into his favorite chair near the fire. He would not act rashly; he knew that much. But he could not ignore the stirring of doubt in his belly, the turning of his stomach that was not simply too much wine or too many hors d'oeuvres. Still he sipped his wine, hoping that alcohol at least would calm his frayed nerves. 

He passed much of the night in this manner, not caring for the time that passed or the party that continued below in the courtyard. By the time he finally laid down, it was nearing sun up, and his tongue was stained purple with wine. Though he knew he would not sleep well, he forced himself to rest. He would need whatever energy he could muster in the hours to come.

___

Eliot passed the trek to Ember's temple in a daze.

He left Whitepsire alone in the morning, without even a note to Margo detailing his plans. Perhaps if this venture went poorly, it would be only he who suffered for it. If she could truly claim ignorance of his folly then perhaps she would be allowed to keep her crown and her throne. Eliot thought he might die of loneliness without her, shunted back to Earth alone, but the truth was that he was resilient, remarkably hard to kill. Eliot had remade himself twice now, and could do so again. His heart, split as it would be between Margo and Quentin, would remain ever in Fillory, but what use was a heart, anyway?

Thus resolved, Eliot took the King's Road through the orchard in the early morning light, thinking of that fateful morning when he'd left this orchard bemused and smelling of over-ripe plums. From the King's Road he moved on foot, hiking the remainder of the distance up towards the ancient structure of Ember's shrine. 

He climbed the familiar path, scrambling up the loose rocks toward the end even as his calves burned and his lungs heaved. Even in his sorry state, he couldn't help but laugh at himself, for surely he should be used to petitioning gods by now.

At last he reached the temple. He rolled his eyes as he cut his hand, but did his best to complete the ritual without visible or audible complaint.

But Eliot was not, he realized as the temple crystallized around him, the first one to arrive. 

"— _loving Fillory_ should be enough!"

Eliot's heart stopped, and he froze stalk-still, unable to move because he _knew that voice_. He would know that voice anywhere, in darkness, at the end of the world. 

"That's not the bargain that was struck, Child of Earth. Surely your king told you." 

Eliot felt the heat of shame crawl up his neck. Though he had told Quentin the truth, he could not help but feel guilty now, having tangled Quentin up in the mess of his life. 

"Don't you understand, I'm not a child of Earth! Not in any real or meaningful way. I've been here since I was _six years old_ , my sweat and blood and love poured into this land. My love for _him_ —" Quentin's voice broke, and something deep in Eliot called out to go to him, but he found he could not move, as if bespelled. "You know the worst part of getting exactly what you want? When it's not good enough. When I was a child, all I wanted after my father died was to come here. Fillory was supposed to _mean something_. I was supposed to _mean something_ here. And instead I had twenty years of misery, _twenty years_ of toil and verbal abuse and neglect."

"You could have sought the crowns—"

"I never wanted to rule! I don't want to rule even now. I'm not here seeking a crown, if that's all I was after why would I be here asking to be the consort of a King, rather than to be a King myself? I'm here pleading mercy for the man I love! Do not condemn him to a life of misery. Fillory is supposed to be better than that. All I ever wanted, every day I worked in that fucking orchard, was to be able to find an escape. The _idea_ of what Fillory was supposed to be, a promise that people like me— people like me had a _place_ in the world, that kept me going. The idea of Fillory saved my life. I deserve a chance to make it all it could be. _Eliot_ deserves a chance to make this life what it could be. He's _good_ for Fillory, and he—" Quentin's voice cut out again, muffled by a sob. "He was good to me."

Eliot's heart ached to hear Quentin's declarations. Not just of his love, but of his belief— in Fillory, and worse, in Eliot. In all his life, no one had ever proclaimed such faith in Eliot. To think that he had held such a precious thing in his hands and thrown it away, that he had rejected it— it was almost too much to bear. 

As if Ember had heard his thoughts, he chuckled and said, "He threw you out. Like so much garbage, little human boy."

"No, he— he was hurt, but he's a good man. He's a good King. Please— Let me help him be a great one."

"You think yourself capable of this? Of changing a man as hapless as he is?"

Eliot's chest ached as Quentin shook his head. "It's not about change. It's about— it's about _growth_. And I think, I know that we could grow together. That together we could bring peace and prosperity to Fillory far greater than he could do alone."

A long pause followed as at last Ember seemed to consider Quentin's words. Eliot's heart raced, his voice caught his throat; he felt as though he should stand up and make his own petition to Ember but it felt— wrong, somehow, as if to do so would be to undermine the passion of Quentin's plea. Through the overgrowth he could not see Quentin, and he could hardly make out Ember's imposing frame. But he could see, he thought, in the tilt of Ember's head, that he was truly evaluating what Quentin had come to say.

At last Ember said, "I am inclined to grant you this reprieve. Your spirit, child, is truly unparalleled, and I think you would at least contribute _excitement_ to the royal halls. I wonder, though, what does your king think of this?"

Quentin was silent a moment longer. "I don't know. I don't know if he's forgiven me. I don't know that he will."

"Why don't we ask him then?" Ember said, the question ending on a gleeful lilt. "Come out, little king."

Eliot swallowed the knot in his throat. As he emerged from his hiding place, his hands shook and his heart beat so mercilessly in his chest that he thought it must have been that which had given him away. When he rounded the corner he saw Quentin and it was only then that he felt his traitorous heart begin to calm.

He realized that he had been prepared never to see Quentin again, that he had come to petition Ember and though determined, had thought himself sure to fail. To see Quentin with his eyes alight and his chest heaving with the effort of his plea was so much more than he had even dared dream of; to hold Quentin in his sights was a greater comfort than he had ever known.

"You're here," Quentin said. Aghast though he sounded, Eliot hoped he did not mistake the glint of hope in his eyes.

He nodded. "I am. I have heard your petition—"

"Eliot—"

"Please, let me finish." Eliot spared himself another moment to collect his words. What he would say next might be the most important words to ever leave his lips. "You know some of the story of what drove me to Fillory, that it came on the tails of a heartbreak, but you do not know the extent of it. The man I loved, Michael, he— he lied to me about many things, but among those were the kinds of people he associated himself with. Some of those associates saw fit to punish him through me and I almost died, Quentin, trying to get away. We, Margo and I, we ran as far as we could, because that's what I do when I'm afraid. I run away. I'm still running now, but I'm so _tired_ of it. I want to stop running, and I want— I want to grow, like you said. I didn't— I didn't think I was capable of that, anymore, but you showed me I might be. If I'm braver now than I was, it's because of you."

"I ran away too," Quentin said weakly, stepping towards Eliot. "Please understand, Eliot, I never meant to lie to you. I thought no harm could come of enjoying your attention while I could keep it, then you started speaking of marriage and what was at stake and it seemed— it seemed kinder, somehow, to just disappear. But Margo reminded me that you deserved the truth, and I did intend to tell you, I swear."

"I believe you," Eliot promised, reaching out until he could touch Quentin's cheek. "That's why I'm here, I was— I had come to plead for you, but it seems you do not need my pleas after all."

"I'd confess I might like to hear them," Quentin breathed out on a laugh, remarkable brown eyes growing wet with tears. 

"Then perhaps you can help me," Eliot says gently, reaching into his pack to pull out the gold and glass shoe. "You see, I have this rather remarkable shoe— its owner is my match, in every conceivable way. Perhaps you can tell me what I might do to earn his forgiveness, so that I might ask him to be my husband. I would do anything to earn his hand."

"I'm not sure you require his forgiveness," Quentin softly said. "You did nothing wrong." Still he reached forward and took the shoe, admiring the fine embroidery. "Margo's got quite the talent, hasn't she?" he said.

Eliot's lip quivered and he couldn't help himself; he laughed. "She does," he agreed. He took a last step toward Quentin so that they stood as close as they could to one another and took his free hand, running his thumb across the top. "I'd like your forgiveness, nevertheless. If I may be so bold."

"Oh, Eliot," Quentin sigh, looking up at him with a kind of open frankness that terrified Eliot. He longed to see it every day for the rest of his life. "It's yours. As is my hand, and my heart, and any other bit of me you'd care to keep."

Eliot's face ached with the smile across it. "You're quite sure?"

Quentin looked up at him, his gaze warm through his dark lashes. Eliot's heart nearly stopped, unsure what to expect, still half-fearing a last-second rejection. But Quentin only brought Eliot's hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. 

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he said. When he smiled Eliot was helpless to deny himself any longer; he embraced Quentin as he had longed to do since their last parting. 

"Well," he whispered against Quentin's temple. "I just have one last question for you."

"Hm?"

"How do you feel about an autumn wedding?"

Quentin laughed, throwing his arms up in a loop around Eliot's neck. "I thought you had to marry by the Equinox."

"That was the deal," came a rumbling voice from behind them, causing Eliot to jump. He had quite literally forgotten where they were. Stumbling back, Eliot spun around to face Ember, who was sitting with his hooves thrown up on the table, eating grapes. "This was a good little show, though, I will admit. I'm feeling better and better about this idea all the time."

"El," Quentin said, soft at his side, hand closing around Eliot's wrist. Eliot looked down at him, at his soft brown eyes and sweet smile, the line of his nose and the crease of his dimples. "I don't want to wait. I don't want to spend another single night away from you."

"Spring, then," Eliot muttered helplessly, trying not to get lost in him though it was nigh impossible. "Flowers and sunlight."

"New beginnings," Quentin agreed. "Peach blossoms and honey."

"And little cakes!" cried the god in the corner, bringing a smile to Quentin's mouth.

"The finest _petits fours_ in all the land," Eliot agreed as Quentin's arms looped up around Eliot's neck. Giddy, Eliot scooped him up into a spin, startling a laugh out of Quentin as he clung on tight. He was flushed pink when Eliot finally set him back on his feet, leaning up eagerly as if to ask for a kiss. 

Eliot was only too happy to oblige. Bringing a hand to Quentin's cheek, he craned his neck to capture him in a kiss. Despite all the kisses they had shared during their night together, this one felt different, perhaps even better somehow. In that moment and in that kiss, Eliot thought that for the first time he was truly sure of the shape of his future. In the feeling of Quentin's lips against his own he could feel every possibility, every hope. This, he thought, a little crazed, must be what love felt like. To know in the touch of another person what it was to come to life.

"Will you return to Whitespire with me tonight?" he asked as he pulled away.

"You know, I think I need one final night at home," Quentin said.

"Of course," Eliot said. "I understand."

Quentin laughed. "You absolute dolt. Of course I'll come back with you. There's nowhere else I'd rather be."

"You, _sir_ , are supposed to be charming!" Eliot accused, laughing.

"I believe that's your role," Quentin teased, eyes twinkling. "Or am I to be a prince, now, too?"

"Darling, you may be whatever you'd like to be," Eliot sighed, tipping his forehead down to rest against Quentin's. "As long as you're mine."

"Yours," Quentin agreed. "Now, and ever after."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We can be found on tumblr at [propinquitous](https://propinquitous.tumblr.com/) and [portraitofemmy](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


End file.
